


Farewell, Gypsy

by Nilsine



Category: Dishonored (Video Game)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Hotel, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Humor, Blackmail, Eccentric Bazillionaire, F/M, Fish out of Water, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Half-Siblings, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Love in General, Male-Female Friendship, Misunderstandings, Moving On, Musicians, Past Dysfunctional Relationships, Pianist! Corvo, Playgirl, Romantic Comedy, Stalking, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Wealthy People, embezzlement
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-25 08:24:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 41,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nilsine/pseuds/Nilsine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corvo Attano wants a new way of life, the freedom to sleep naked again, and a chance to escape from the half-brother who loathes him. However, when he decides to put his future in the hands of an enigmatic 'benefactor', known as The Outsider, he gets precisely what he asked for... and then some. Now, he is faced with a highly eccentric magnate's demands, a cute little girl named Emily, her beautiful, lonely, divorced mother, a storm of phone calls, a plethora of hotel misfits...and a blackmail scheme?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This is only the beginning, Mr. Attano

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a crazy chick.

On a cloudy, foggy evening in the city of Dunwall, a ferry came to port. Some of the passengers were returning back from a warm vacation in Serkonos. Others were Serkonians arriving for business or pleasure. The crowd on the docks watched in a mellow hum of excitement, and the passengers waited in a tense silence. A few of the passengers, many of them very young, stood on deck and watched the horizon grow larger and larger by the second. 

Among the many impatient ones, Corvo Attano leaned against the rail, hood flapping in the wind. He stole a quick glance at his watch: a quarter to five in the evening. 

He stared at the buildings with a very eager interest. He had only been to Dunwall once in his lifetime. And his stay promised to be much longer. 

 _The only downside,_ he thought quietly… _it’ll be hard to see the stars at my new home._  

Corvo sighed wearily, and not because the trip had been tiresome. This new landscape before his eyes told him that there was officially no backing out. After all, he had signed a contract. 

“No,” he said quietly. “I’m far past that now.” 

The cell phone vibrated in his jacket pocket. Corvo scowled, guessing the caller's identity immediately. He slid it out without much hurry or care; the last thing he wanted was to answer. 

“DAUD,” it said. 

Yes, exactly who he thought it was. And this was the three hundred and fiftieth call. In the last twelve days. Something inside Corvo Attano snapped. He glared at the flashing, vibrating screen and sneered. 

“Having fun going broke, you lousy scumbag,” he muttered in spite. 

He tossed his phone over his shoulder with graceful finesse. The phone continued to ring, spinning in a circle like a speeding bullet, and crashed into the water below with an insignificant splash. 

And so, the boat pulled into dock, and the passengers disembarked quickly yet efficiently. Corvo pulled up his hood and swung a large messenger bag over his arm. Tugging a large suitcase behind him, with a smaller suitcase strapped to its back, he set foot onto the city of Dunwall. He joined the throng of people in the crowd, noticed by no one. 

In time, he boarded a bus that would take him straight to the other side of the city. A kindly passenger helped him lift his suitcases onto a rack. The bus was packed like a can of sardines, but he didn’t mind; they could’ve squashed him for all he cared. For the first time in years, since the day his mother died, Corvo felt the light, gently crushing sensation of freedom. 

He wondered what his father would think of it all.

 

00000

 

The Pandyssia was busy once again. Jessamine Kaldwin didn’t have to be on the same block to tell. 

Her chauffer drove in silence. As the great scion checked her messages on her phone, her right hand, Hiram Burrows took a last minute call. By the creases in his brow and his frustrated yet quiet tone, she understood that the person on the other end was being difficult. She sighed quietly and put her phone away, and then, she smoothed some loose hairs from her forehead. She briefly glanced at her nails; they needed some work. She would have a salon girl come up to her suite… tomorrow. 

Jessamine was a lady through and through. Her legs were crossed at the ankles, shifted at a slight angle, and her hands were on her lap. She dressed exactly as her role in life dictated, with a flair of originality. Her pants suit was pitch black with ornate buttons at the jacket, but her blouse was a satiny, plain creamy white rather than absolutely bleached. Her hair was fixed into a severe, twist bun, yet it was decorated with a golden pin. She was neat and tidy, but her clothes were somewhat wrinkled from a day’s worth of traveling. 

As the limousine slowed down, making its way towards the front of the hotel, she leaned only somewhat, looking out the window. Through the tinted window, she saw all of the passersby go their way; some, she clearly recognized as residents of the premises. However, to her curiosity, she noticed a peculiar individual, weighed down by heavy bags as he trudged along the block. 

 _Why is he walking with such a load?_ she asked herself. _Why not take a taxi?_  

Jessamine tucked her cell phone into a leather case, and Burrows ended his call and huffed. 

“The Outsider,” she said. 

“That man is perniciously impossible!” Burrows replied with a low harshness. “And to think that after all this time, he was secretly our most ‘generous’ sponsor!” 

“That’s life, I suppose.” 

“And what kind of gall would make him that think he had the right to unleash a spy on us? 

“The term I believe he used was ‘representative’. And he does have a right to decide whether or not he should continue his sponsorship. After all, he is only familiar in dealing with my father. Not me.” 

Jessamine sighed, a sad mien on her lovely face. The late Mr. Kaldwin had been dead for only five months, God rest his soul. 

“And it would be best to change your attitude,” she said with authority. “You know as well as I do, that this man… who calls himself “The Outsider” has his tentacles in every industry you could possibly imagine… legal… financial… technology… the arts… the media… he even plays in the political arena. After all, my father always did say, ‘he that has the gold makes all the rules’.” 

Burrows’ face tightened, but the annoyed flicker in his eyes vanished. He was carefully considering her words. 

“So, we will just go on as we usually do. With excellence. Is that clear?” 

“Yes, Ms. Kaldwin.” 

Still, Jessamine knew exactly what would transpire. As soon as they separated inside the Pandyssia, Burrows would go straight to management and drill them on the virtues of order and courtesy. The workload would be doubled, and the restraints would be pulled taut. She sincerely wept for the staff. 

The limousine finally came to a stop, right in front of the entrance. The hotel security was already lined up and waiting for her, making a path to the front doors. A man walked between the two lines and towards the car door. She put her cell phone in an organized place in her handbag and prepared to get out. 

“We’ll talk more on this later,” Jessamine told her assistant, and the man opened the door for her. She slid out her feet, one leg after the other, and rose out of the car with her head held high. 

“Good evening, Ms. Kaldwin,” he greeted. 

“Good evening, Mr. Martin,” she replied. 

Burrows followed her out of the limousine and joined her side. As they sauntered towards the main doors, Martin stepped closely at their heels. Jessamine didn’t realize how cold it really was until she had finally entered the safety of the hotel. 

As her heels clicked on the marble floors of the lobby, most of the hotel guests paid her with either little heed or a quiet fascination. Some recognized her already, and her entrance did not amaze others who did not. After all, the Pandyssia was a first-class establishment; there was nothing strange about her arriving in such an official manner. 

And none of them cared when a little girl in a fancy, silken night gown came running up to her, arms outstretched and demanding to be embraced. She smiled wide and opened her arms, receiving her daughter with joy. 

“Mummy!” she squeaked into Jessamine’s stomach. 

“Emily, it’s past your bedtime,” Jessamine replied in gentle chiding. “Did you sneak past Callista again?” 

Emily looked up at her mother’s face and nodded, grinning without remorse. Jessamine chuckled, leaned over her, and kissed her on top of her head.

 

00000

 

Moments later, Corvo entered the hotel through a side door and tried to be unnoticeable. 

He failed miserably. 

Before he even reached the receptionist’s desk, he quickly realized that he had gained the attention from the surrounding guests. And perhaps, their collective displeasure. 

It wasn’t hard for him to figure out why. The patrons of Pandyssia were dressed to in their finest. Some of the women wore coats with fur lining, and he recognized a lady wearing a Vera Moray trench coat (he was well-acquainted with the quality). The men all wore business suits and were either well shaven or had a perfectly crafted mustache and beard. 

Meanwhile, Corvo had neglected to shave that week. His coat was well-worn, and he wore a hooded sweatshirt underneath, along with a pair of jeans. And to top it all off, he was _carrying_ his luggage instead of having a porter roll it for him. 

He was a sudden dark smudge on their brightly lit world—an alleged member of the great unwashed—who had the audacity to pollute their air with his presence. 

Corvo hadn’t meant to look so shabby. It was hard to remember keeping appearances while backpacking in Serkonos to escape from his own half-brother. Before he had fled his late father's estate, he had owned several suits, but he was specifically instructed to leave them behind. And through no real fault of his own, due to his scruffy demeanor, the bellboys had turned up their noses. 

 _Well, this is just wonderful,_ he thought dryly. 

Nevertheless, he braved the rest of the way and boldly stood before a receptionist. Whether they liked it or not, he was a guest… no, a new resident. And after he cleaned himself up and stepped out of his new home in better clothes (if the cleaner’s service was as quick as he’d been told), he would blend in and no one would have the right to question it. If they had the right in the first place.

 

00000

 

Meanwhile, among the bewildered guests, Jessamine’s sense of reality was shattered. Hadn’t she just seen this exact, same fellow walking along the block with his luggage? That meant that he hadn’t arrived to the Pandyssia by car, the way that every other patron always arrived. But why? 

 _And nevermind the way he looks.Why aren't the bellboys helping him with his luggage?_  

Jessamine often froze when finding something she couldn’t understand. 

“I like his coat!” Emily chirped. 

She patted her daughter on the head and turned to Burrows with a frown. “Why isn't that man being helped? What are the bellboys doing?” 

Burrows winced and bowed his head. “I'm sorry, Ms. Kaldwin. I'll rectify it right away.” 

He left her side and stomped towards the bellboys. Jessamine shook her head as she took her daughter's hand and lead her out of the lobby. A few security guards escorted them along the way. 

_Hmmm. Maybe the staff needs some discipline after all._

 

00000

 

The receptionist that greeted him had an accent. His accent. Corvo glanced at her nametag and saw a Serkonian name. He smiled comfortably and spoke to her in their native tongue. She grinned back in a mild camaraderie and replied in suit. 

“Are you here on business, sir?” the receptionist asked with a friendly lilt. “Vacation? Or are you a new resident?” 

“I’m afraid I’m a new resident,” he replied amusedly. 

“What name are you booked under?” she requested. 

“Attano,” he answered. “Corvo Attano.” 

The receptionist blinked in surprise and closely examined his face. She sucked in her breath and went about her work with utmost care, locating his suite on the computer. After she finished, she gave him his suite number and a gold-plated key. In the background, a porter tentatively approached to carry his bags. 

As he reached for his key, she leaned closed and spoke in a hushed tone. 

“I went to your last concert,” she said. “About a month ago. I was visiting family. And you played alongside the Boyle sisters. I’ve always admired your work.” 

“Thank you,” Corvo replied. “It’s good to meet a fellow Serkonian who appreciates good music.” 

“I heard from my brother that you left Karnaca… without telling anyone where you went. He told me everything about it… if all of it was indeed fact. And to think you’d show up _here_ of all places! What exactly are you up to? If that isn’t too impertinent to ask…” 

“Not at all. I just needed to get away. Permanently.” 

The receptionist nodded with humble sympathy. “Life is a very hard journey, Senhor.” 

The bellboy silently lifted the bags onto the luggage cart. They barely noticed. 

“Say, can I have your autograph?” she begged. 

“You can come and get it yourself after your shift is over,” Corvo suggested. 

The receptionist agreed eagerly, and the bellboy took the key from the desk. 

“Right this way, sir,” he said. 

Corvo hummed in reply and followed. His day wasn’t going to end for a while after all.

 

00000

 

Several minutes later, after he had properly tipped the bellboy and was bid a good night, Corvo took a good look at his new abode. To be more accurate, instead of a suite, it was nothing short of an apartment. 

He stood still for a moment, taking a deep breath to steady himself. 

 _This is only the beginning, Mr. Attano,_ he declared to himself. 

From the front door, there was a spacious foyer and a small coat closet behind a door. Corvo opened it to hang up his coat, and to his initial shock, there were three, newly pressed coats hanging inside. He slowly put away his coat and closed the door. 

Venturing further in, he walked into the living room. The room was furnished with light shades of beige, green, and gold and dark shades of violet and brown. There was a large picture window with an exceptional view. At one corner of the room, there was a white table, decorated with a vase of Tyvian lilies. Best of all, there was a beautiful grand pianoforte in opposite corner. 

 _I hope it's well tuned._  

He lifted the cover from over the keys, perked up his sensitive ears, and tested them out with an impromptu melody. It was good enough. 

An envelope was sitting on top of the piano. He picked it up. 

There was another door that led to a small kitchen. It was fully equipped with a stove, oven, utensils, and all. There were complimentary snacks arranged on a countertop. He opened the refrigerator, expecting at least _something_ inside, and found milk, juices, fruits, cheeses, breads… along with sausages and beers of the Serkonian variety. 

“I’d love to get drunk right about now,” he admitted. 

Unfortunately, Corvo was phenomenally good at holding his liquor. 

He retracted his steps, across the living room, and found the bedroom at last. He was tempted to dive into his very large bed from exhaustion, but he knew what was coming. He had been to this type of hotel before. Any minute, more than likely the very next minute, an attendant would come to cater to his special needs or requests. 

Corvo already knew what he wanted: to have the clothes in his luggage pressed, to have a pot of chamomile tea with white honey, and to have a copy of the Karnaca Times. He wanted to read the business section and survey the damage his departure had inevitably caused. He smiled with unconcealed delight; he knew he would find what he wanted to see. 

He entered the closet and glanced at a mirror to look at his unkept reflection. “I look like a barbarian.” 

Inside, he knew he would find some clothes, but he had never expected the extent of what he found. Thirteen crisp, new suits lined up on the rack, all dark shades but all very different from each other. Twenty shirts: eight whites, six baby blues, four rose pinks, and two yellow. Four jackets: two of them leather. He didn’t bother rummaging through the drawers; there would be underwear and cufflinks. 

“This man…” he realized, “really takes care of everything.” 

Finally, Corvo sat down at the foot of his bed, opened the envelope, and took out a letter. He didn’t have to remember the beautiful, calligraphic handwriting. He knew very well _whom_ it was from.

 

 _My dear Corvo,_  

 _Glad to see you made it to Dunwall in one piece._  

 _We’ve caused quite a stir, you and I, and it still won’t let up. Your beloved, ridiculous half-brother is sitting on needles and pins, watching as I rip his promised inheritance right from his fingers. And your wife—oh, pardon me—your former wife, has isolated herself in disgrace. Good job, my fellow partner in crime. They had it coming._  

 _I’m glad you’ve taken an interest in this game I’ve arranged for you. And don’t worry; I promise to be gentle. After all, you are a fascinating gentleman with such paradoxical behavior. I can’t afford to estrange you._  

 _I know. You probably have a few questions for me, and I assure you, they will be answered in due time. But for now, why not rest and relax for the rest of the week? We can discuss the nature of your ‘employment’ later… and in great detail._  

 

 _Farewell, Gypsy_  

_-The Outsider_

 

_P.S._

 

_I highly recommend tea at The Golden Cat. The sandwiches are quite lovely._

 

Corvo wrinkled his nose, folded the letter, and tossed it to the side. “That’s the creepiest letter I’ve ever received.”

 

 

 


	2. Thankful for the quiet

The first thing that Jessamine saw, as she woke up to her alarm, was her daughter’s face. Emily groaned and stirred, moving against her breast, but she didn’t wake up; she was a heavy sleeper. Jessamine gently rolled her off, cushioning her against a pillow, and turned off the alarm. She sat up in her bed, covering her yawning mouth, and struggled to keep her eyes open. It was half-past five.

She rose quietly from her bed, wearing a long, purple nightgown; dark colors also suited her pale skin best. The train of her gown dragged behind her as she went into her bathroom, and she washed her face, wiping the crust from her eyes. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Three days of marginal rest had been sufficient enough.

Jessamine sighed, her cheeks rosy from sleep, and retrieved her silken robe from her closet. She left her bedroom and stepped into the hall, tossing her hair behind her shoulders, and walked down the stairs. The living room window showed a dark, steel blue world. It was just before dawn.

Callista was already hovering over the dining table, arranging a pot of Gristol tea and scones with strawberry-kiwi jam. Jessamine sniffed the potent smell of the tealeaves with a smile. Callista greeted her warmly; she was already dressed in a white blouse with a ruffled collar, a gray, A-line skirt, and a pair of black slippers. The back of her pinned, chestnut hair looked like a dumpling.

“Good morning, Ms. Kaldwin,” she chirped.

“Good morning, Callista,” Jessamine replied. “And thank you.”

She sat down to the dining table, and Callista poured her a cup.

“Did we get the paper yet?” Jessamine requested.

“I’ll go and see,” Callista replied.

As soon as she turned her back and left, Jessamine dropped two sugar cubes into her tea and stirred gently. She sighed in thought.

 _Outsider or not,_ Jessamine mused, _I’m not sure I can abide losing_ _ **that**_ _much financial backing. My father did say that_ _ **that man**_ _could be very capricious…_

She shrugged, brushing it off for the moment, and sipped her tea. Callista knew how to brew it to her liking.

Callista returned triumphantly with the Dunwall Times and laid it on the table. Jessamine dove into it and took out the business section. On the front headlines, she saw an article’s title that was in the largest bold letters she had ever seen:

 

**Whale Swallows Salazar Whole**

 

Despite the rather amusing title, Jessamine was struck with horror. She scanned the caption under the article’s picture and shook her head.

“Devil take it!” she cried. “He’s everywhere.”

Callista looked over her mistress’ shoulder in curiosity and wrinkled her nose over the title. “Whale?”

“Another one of The Outsider’s nicknames,” Jessamine explained. “Apparently, it’s **him** who’s taking over the Salazar Law Firm Corp.”

“Isn’t that a rather large company?” Callista asked with uncertainty.

“One of the top five law firms in Serkonos. And not just that… he’s also laid claim to the late Mr. Salazar’s personal assets, financial residue, and even the majority of his private property… leaving his only legitimate son, Daud Salazar, with a single estate, a vineyard, and virtually nothing else!”

Callista gaped and sat down at the table. Jessamine continued to scan the facts.

“Gracious!” she cried. “That’s awful! Absolutely cruel!”

Jessamine shrugged. “According to the article, Mr. Salazar, the living one, brought the matter upon himself. He violated one of the terms in the late Salazar’s will, and as a result, it belongs to the Outsider by default.”

“But still…”

“That’s why you’re not cut out for big business, my dear. On one day, someone might be the perfect gentlemen… and the next day, they'll financially cut your throat. The living Mr. Salazar—just one of many causalities.”

Callista nodded in dismay. “You’re right. You’re right.”

Jessamine stopped reading the article and moved on to another one. She silently drank her tea and read about a possible merger.

“Is Emily… ever terribly lonely while I’m gone?” she asked, changing the subject.

“You know little Em,” Callista replied, becoming cheerful, “the hotel is her playground. She’s far too preoccupied to be lonely.”

Jessamine smiled in relief. “That’s good. I have to go back to Tyvia next month to inspect the construction site. Father was very thrilled about the new lodge.”

“How fun! I love skiing.”

“You and Delilah have that in common. Hmm... maybe, I'll pop in on her tonight and ask her to come with me.”

 

00000

 

An hour later, Delilah Copperspoon groaned against her pillow. Her cell phone buzzed with a text from Jessamine. A large black dog laid curled up near the foot of her bed and whined at the sudden noise.

She picked up and read the message. Jessamine was asking to come over to her suite for some tea. Delilah smiled and replied that she would be delighted.

She glanced at the time: 6:38 am. _Dreadful! It's far too early to be alive,_ she thought, throwing dark sheets over her head. Working in the studio until the wee hours had never been kind to her.

 

00000

 

Corvo rolled over in the bed and sighed in contentment. It had been almost two years since he had slept naked for the sake of it.

He never understood why his wife—no, his former wife—disapproved of it. It was more comfortable, he slept better, and he woke up refreshed every morning. He had tried to convince her to join in on it or at least let him continue the habit. Yet, his wife—no, his former wife—had forcibly weaned him off of it.

For some reason, she found it extremely lewd to regularly sleep in the buff, unless they had just finished performing their “marital duties”. But evidently, she frowned upon it more than she did on cuckoldry.

“Irony,” Corvo muttered. “Ha ha ha…”

The approaching sunlight was blocked by blackout curtains.

For three nights in a row, he had had the decadent pleasure of growing back into the practice. The Tyvian cotton sheets felt good against his skin. For a few more minutes, when the clock hit seven., he would get up, take a nice long shower, get dressed, and then take on the city for some last minute business and a local Gristol breakfast.

He closed his eyes and drifted a little bit. Life, for once, felt like a dream...

And then, Corvo heard a clicking noise at the other end of the suite. The front door was being opened. He shot up in bed and listened. Someone was definitely there.

He slipped out of bed, threw on a robe, and quietly stepped out of his bedroom. The living room was empty. He heard the door being shut and briefly screwed his head around. No one was there. He marched towards the foyer.

When he got there, he saw no one. Corvo opened the door to peak out, but the hotel hallway was empty and silent. He was alone again.

He shut the door and ran his fingers through his hair, wondering if anyone had come into the suite at all. But, as he passed by a large niche in his hall, he saw a box sitting inside of it. It was wrapped in red paper, tied in a blue satin bow. Startled but curious, he picked it up and saw a tag attached to it.

 

To My Dear Corvo

 

Corvo shuddered. “Oh, good grief!”

He bit his lip in distaste but untied the ribbon anyway, dropping it onto the floor. He tore past the red paper, revealing a thick white box, and pealed off the tape. Inside the box, he found a cell phone. A very peculiar looking cell phone.

It was a black, plain looking thing, but it was a sleek, flip phone with parts that he’d never seen on any phone before. It appeared to be quite advanced but not in an exaggerated sort of way, with a brand he recognized, nor did it have a brand label or even a model number. The only thing to mark it was a small emblem on its outer surface; it was a large, round button with a strange, almost tribal looking insignia and a silhouette of a whale in the background.

 _Did he find out that I no longer had a phone?_ he pondered uncomfortably. _Or is this…?_

He peered inside the box, and there was a leather case, a charger, and piece of paper with a note:

_**Only push the whale when you want to have a chat. To summon the chauffeur, press 7 on speed dial.** _

Corvo didn’t particularly want to talk to The Outsider. At least, not yet. But he would appreciate the chauffeur when need be.

 

00000

 

Waverly Boyle had had a bad night. She had had them many times before.

She had gone to bed at her regular time: ten o’clock. She always went to bed at that time, unless she was playing at a concert or if she was practicing with her sisters for a concert. However, as it occurred on many nights, her oldest sister, Lydia had taken to obsessively playing moody music on her violin. That lasted until one o’clock in the morning. And when she had finally drifted into a deep sleep, the middle sister, Esma, has barged proudly into the suite after a tryst.

If it weren’t for her sensible disposition, Waverly would’ve have strangled both of her sisters a long time ago. No wonder their father trusted _her_ to handle their allowance.

To her personal disgust, she ended up sleeping past eleven. Anything past eight was slovenly. Even worse, she had been woken up by Esma, who boisterously made her way into the room with a music magazine in her hand and coffee liquor on her breath.

Esma was still dressed for bed in a red, diaphanous baby doll nightgown. She was teeter tottering on wobbly legs, and there was a bag of ice tied to her head. To Waverly’s surprise, it wasn’t because Esma had a hangover. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be in her room at all.

Resigned to her daily fate, Waverly groaned and struggled to lift herself up.

“Updates!” Esma crooned, and unceremoniously dumped the magazine onto Waverly’s chest.

“What on the Isles is this?” she asked irritably.

“The ongoing saga of our favorite pianist.”

Waverly changed her attitude immediately. She propped herself up against her pillows and took hold of the magazine. The article was not necessarily of “their pianist”; it was mostly on his former wife, a moderately successful soprano of _previously_ good repute. She scoffed as she glanced at one of the featured photographs.

“There’s no way she can downplay this… the smarmy, tawdry, little beast!” she declared. “Poor Corvo.”

“Poor!?” Esma laughed. “This is the best kind of revenge one could possibly get. He’s having a bloody ball, and good riddance. What a dreadful voice.”

“You hated her voice because she was married to the man.”

“Bah! That’s over and done with! And besides, she ran her notes together whenever she sang.”

Waverly sighed and nodded in allowance. Esma sat down next to her on the bed and glanced at an image of Corvo standing next to the “little beast”. She hummed in deep reflection (as deep as her flighty personality would let her).

“For some reason, he looks much more gorgeous than he did before,” she declared.

“That’s because he's now available, Esma dear,” Waverly deadpanned.

Esma gave her younger sister an incredulous grin and stuck out her tongue.

 _If you weren’t so hot on his heels,_ Waverly thought, _I’d tell you that I spotted him here last night. I don’t think he’d be wanting of your company._

Esma stood up and sauntered towards the door, hands on her hips. When she reached the door, she was humming seductively.

“Don’t worry,” Esma mocked. “I’d never take away my baby sister’s love interest…”

Waverly went red in the face and threw a pillow at her. “Get a grip! He’s not my type!”

Esma ducked out of the room in the nick of time.

 

00000

 

 

A few hours later, at the Café Pandyssia, two professors were seated at a table near a window. They had just ordered a late lunch.

The first professor was an older man of Tyvian descent, possibly in his early fifties. His hair was dark and bushy, and he sported a thick beard and no mustache. He was neatly dressed, with a dark green turtleneck sweater and black pants; his black coat was hanging on the back of his chair.

The second professor was much younger, probably by more than a decade, and was of a mixed breed. He was bespectacled and had noticeable stubble, a crease in his brow, and a receding hairline. He was dressed similarly to his companion, save for wearing a green and gray plaid shirt and having a tan colored coat at his back.

It could easily be surmised that the first professor was the other’s superior; he was currently giving the younger companion an irritated look, which was currently being ignored. He grumbled and fussed with passionate words, and it was all received in cold silence.

“Why can’t I make you understand!?” Anton Sokolov snapped. “You have the exact look I need for my work. You should be flattered I’d consider **you** of all people… Mr. Inventor.”

Piero Joplin glared hard at him and then rolled his eyes. “Right. Whatever.”

“Ooooooo!” he grunted angrily. “You act as if I’m asking you to pose nude! I only want one portrait. And I could work off a photograph instead.”

Piero sighed tiredly and answered, “Listen… sir. As much as I like the idea of being immortalized on one of your canvases, I prefer the idea of growing old and dying like everyone else. So, no hard feelings?”

By the dark look that Sokolov was giving him, he realized that hard feelings would continue to abound. He shook his head and reached for his newspaper.

 _There’s no bloody way in hell I'll become this drunkard's work of art!_ Piero decided quietly.

“If you’re worried about anonymity,” Sokolov persevered, “I can always change your hair color. And your nose. You could even take off those ridiculous glasses!”

Piero pulled out the business section of his Dunwall Times and stared at the front headlines. He saw the names stated in the title with recognition, but he opened the section with indifference and found another article that caught his interest. The pages of the newspaper effectively blocked his attention from his bothersome companion.

Sokolov would have growled at him if not for reading the title: _Whale Swallows Salazar Whole_. It brought out another grievance and longing that came from a completely different source.

Piero, who was oblivious to this, was only thankful for the quiet.

 

00000

 

By early evening, Emily Kaldwin was bored. Her mother had returned to fast-paced business. Callista had finished drilling her through her home school studies. She had already eaten a snack, piled upon a hefty lunch before it. There was nothing else to do…

So, she snuck away while Callista wasn’t looking, out of the penthouse suite, totally unescorted. It was her favorite pastime. Once she entered the elevator, the hotel was her castle, and she was its princess. Then, she would have plenty to look forward to.

As she told the elevator man which button to press, Emily was already conjuring up several tasks in her busy mind. She could continue trying to find her mother a more suitable, better half to replace the old one; that was still a work in progress. Or she could go into the main kitchen again and watch the fire blaze from the pans. Or she could slip into Mr. Burrows’ office again, change his clock to the incorrect time, and rearrange his books until his collection went completely awry.

Emily grinned devilishly. _Yes, I’ll do_ _ **that**_ _for starters…_

The elevator reached the lobby, and she skipped right on out, intending to head towards Burrows’ office immediately. But as she crossed the lobby, weaving her way through the adults, a familiar face caught her eye. Anton Sokolov was heading out of the hotel. And she had a question for him.

Boldly, she ran up to him and tugged on his coat to gain his attention. Sokolov turned around, stunned by her sudden intrusion.

“What?” he asked curtly.

“You’re doing my painting, right?” Emily said. “Is it almost done?”

He stared hard at her, and her beady eyes stared back in curious earnest.

“It still needs to dry, Miss Emily,” Sokolov replied in a businesslike tone. “So, not until next week. Now… if you’ll excuse me…”

With that, he quickly skittered away from her and walked out of the hotel. Emily could tell that he didn’t feel comfortable dealing with people her age. Like most of the adults that worked for her mother. Like most of the adults that stayed in the hotel.

For the life of her, she couldn’t understand how so many stuffy people could collect themselves into one single building.

It took Emily a moment to remember where she was headed. And yet, when she started for Burrows’ office again, someone else came and distracted her. At that time, _that funny man_ had returned from his personal business, carrying groceries in his arms. And he was wearing The Coat! The sight of it tickled her fancy in ways that she couldn’t figure out.

 

00000

 

When Corvo reentered the Pandyssia, he didn’t receive the same stares as he did before. An expensive scarf, a good pair of trousers, and a high quality sweater was enough to blend in with the rest of the patrons... in spite of wearing the same coat he arrived in. The bellboys had asked to help him, but he kindly refused.

As he neared the elevator, it occurred to him that he was being followed. Corvo strained his neck to look back, but at first, he saw no one. He faced forward again, ignoring the impulse for a moment. He turned back again, and this time, he looked downwards. A little girl was walking a few feet away, staring up at him.

“Um, hello?” Corvo greeted.

“Hi!” she chirped. “I’m Emily.”

Corvo raised an eyebrow in confusion. “Nice to… meet you?”

Emily speed up her walk and trotted beside him. His eyes followed her. He wondered what important family she came from, since she was well groomed and wore shiny shoes, a satin jumper, and a glossy headband with a decorative bow. She was the type of well-born child that he wished he had grown up as: a happy one.

“Where did you get your coat?” Emily inquired.

“My coat?” Corvo replied, tugging at his collar flap.

She nodded briefly. A businessmen’s daughter.

“I bought it at a shop in Cullero,” he said.

“That’s in Serkonos, right?” she asked. “So, if I go to Serkonos again, I can get one too?”

“I suppose you could.” But he had bought it during his senior year in college.

The elevator opened, and Corvo stepped in. Emily followed.

“Floor twenty-seven, please,” he requested to the elevator woman.

“Yes, sir.”

She turned to the little girl and asked, “Are you going home, Miss Emily?”

Emily shook her head, and the elevator woman pushed number twenty-seven. Corvo breathed deeply and sat his bags down at his feet.

 _So, she’s a resident too,_ he assumed.

“What’s **your** name?” Emily asked.

He flushed slightly, realizing how rude it was not to introduce himself, even in such an unusual circumstance. “I’m Corvo.”

“Hello, Corvo,” she said. “I _like_ your coat.”

“I figured as much!” he chuckled.

Emily smiled wide, enjoying his laugh. It was quiet and low, completely at odds with his tall frame and naturally robust, Serkonian accent. Her cheeks turned pink with happiness. _I guess Burrows’ office will have to wait ‘til tomorrow._

She continued to ask questions as they rode up the elevator, and he continued to indulge her with answers. When he reached his floor, Emily bid him goodbye and didn’t follow. She was polite and had the common sense not to follow him to his suite. Though, he had almost instantly grown fond of the company. Something about that little girl had stirred up a familiar instinct, something he had long put to sleep in his heart.

Corvo swallowed a lump in his throat, a slight depression coming over him. He sat the grocery bags onto the carpet and reached into his pocket for his room key.

As he fished for them, a man walked—no—stomped through the halls of the twenty-seventh floor and right up to a door on the other side of the hall. Corvo turned to acknowledge him, and the man did the same.

Even though the man was coarse in appearance (with a handlebar mustache and pronounced sideburns) and gave him a strange glare, Corvo managed to eek out a polite smile. “Good evening, sir,” he said, before opening his door.

As he started to pick up his bags, the man opened the door to his own respective suite.

“Good evening, Mr. Attano,” he said, with throaty and very pleased voice.

Corvo flinched. By the time he turned his head to look back, the man had disappeared into the suite and shut the door.

His fans, he reminded himself, came in all shapes and sizes.

 

 

00000

 

After a long day, Jessamine received another text from Delilah and went down to see her. She let herself in with a spare key, and upon walking through the door, she nearly stepped on a pair of high heeled boots laying haphazard in the foyer. Kicking off her brown pumps, she wiggled her toes into the carpet and continued on into the living room.

She could smell the scent of rose tea.

Delilah's favorite coat—a flared black one with a high collar—was hanging on an armchair. Jessamine admired the elaborate rose embroidery on the front. Surely, it deserved better treatment, she thought.

“Ah, quick to answer, as always.” Delilah came sauntering from the kitchenette with a tray and tea set. She set it down on the dining table and Jessamine reached out to her.

“How have you been?” she said. “You haven't been pushing too hard on that project of yours, have you?”

Delilah shook her head. “We both agree that _you're_ the one who works too bloody much.”

They embraced exchanged a peck on each cheek. Delilah was dressed as usual, all clad in black. Jessamine could tell that she had had a busy schedule, since Delilah wore one of her snappy leggings and a matching tank top. She still had on her makeup—dark eyeshadow and eggplant colored lipstick.

Jessamine never had an explanation for the four inch heels. Her friend was tall enough already.

“You really should have hung that coat,” she chided, sitting at the table. “It's so beautiful, and...”

“I've had that coat since senior year,” Delilah replied. “It's not so precious. Speaking of coats... Emily came around yesterday. Kept talking about a man in a blue coat running about. Lives on the twenty-seventh floor apparently. She seemed quite taken by it... or him. I'm not sure which.”

She had sliced some cake and poured out some cookies to go with the tea. Jessamine poured herself a cup.

“Say, can we turn off the lights?” Delilah asked. “I've been stifled by bright lights all day.”

Jessamine grinned in approval. “Just like old times.”

The lights went off, and the two ladies were left with a sparkling view of the city below. So began their private tea party.

“Too bad we can't see the moon,” said the young hotelier. “Not like in Whitecliff. The nights are so lovely there.”

“Hmmm. I also remember you spiking our tea with some wine too.”

The artist chuckled at the past discretion. Jessamine huffed and shook her head. “I can't believe Father thought it was your fault,” she replied, scowling. “He just wouldn't believe otherwise. And what he did—”

Delilah snorted. “Your father never liked me, Jessie. You know how he was. Never thought I'd amount to anything. He would've found any other excuse to do what he did.”

“But...”

“Just forget it. We're not children anymore. You should understand that better than me.”

Jessamine sighed in acquiescence. “I do. But the past... doesn't always feel like the past.” She shrugged and forced a smile on her face. “Well, those where the old days. Now, it's nothing but paperwork and traveling. I'll be in Tyvia next month, of course.”

Delilah sighed. “Home for now, and then back out again. But Tyvia sounds nice. I'll be looking forward to skiing at that new resort.”

“You know... that's why I wanted to come over. You'll be done with your next show before the end of the month, won't you? Why not tag along this time? I got a cabin up there and the mountains will be ski-ready by then.”

Her old friend hummed in thought and sipped on her tea. “Sounds interesting. I'll think about it. But... you still won't take Emily with you?”

“Not to Tyvia. It's still a bit too rough.”

“You don't take her anywhere.”

“I took her to Morley and Serkonos. She liked Karnaca.”

“That was in the summer. And the girl's home-schooled. How could it hurt?”

Jessamine leaned back in her chair and stared out the window. The cars darted on the streets like fireflies in the night. She inhaled the scent of the rose tea and lightly sipped. Next time, she would ask for it to be spiked.

“I want her to be more stable,” she explained. “Instead of dragging her along from place to place. As least for now. She needs to learn how to focus more. If that goes well, and she gets older...”

“Sounds like a good plan,” her old friend conceded. “But don't hold her down too much. For a girl living in a hotel called 'Pandyssia', she ought to know what the _continent_ actually looks like.”

Jessamine laughed. “Yes, Vera always tells her the most wonderful stories.”

She tried the cake, and the fluffy, light sweetness melted into her mouth. It was from their mutually favorite bakery.

“But really,” Delilah warned. “Give yourself some more downtime. You've got only one life to live.”

Jessamine shook her head at her friend. “Don't be such a mother hen.”

“Ah!” she cooed mockingly. “But you know how I care for you and Emily. And I promised Mrs. Kaldwin I'd watch over you.”

“Hah, watch over me? Why would you possibly waste your time doing that?”

Delilah leaned back into the chair, slinging her arm behind it. Her haphazard posture contrasted the way held the tea cup between her fingers. “You'd be surprised, dear,” she replied in a cold, serious voice. She pointed the cup at the young hotelier as if she were giving a toast. “The world is a damned wicked place. And security guards can't account for everything.”

Jessamine raised an eyebrow. _Where is this coming from?_

“But speaking of wicked,” Delilah continued, changing the subject, “I hear my old mentor Sokolov hasn't gotten around to finishing Emily's portrait yet...”

Jessamine frowned. She stopped playing ladylike and began to gobble up her slice of cake. “I knew I should've asked you to do it.”

“Then why didn't you?”

“You're busy.”

Delilah waved her off. “I'm not that busy. Tell you what. If he doesn't get it done by the end of the month, cancel it. I'll fix one up while you're in Tyvia. And if I go with you... so much the better.”

Jessamine nodded. “That sounds like a good plan.”

The hour continued. Delilah turned on the radio to classical station and they listened to the opera. They filled their cups more than once and had more slices of cake than they should have.

“I wonder...” Jessamine mused. “How many times can we have nights like this?” She stared at the window and drank her rose tea.

“Who knows?” replied Delilah. “And who really cares? Nothing lasts forever. And if we lose nights like this... we'll only find better nights. Won't we?”

She curled her lips in amusement. “I hope you're right.”

 


	3. I want to see you dance

Lady Vera Moray thanked the heavens for the day she took up philanthropy. 

It was the natural order of things. If one gave something freely to the truly grateful, one always received something in return, one way or another. It started when she had gone with her late husband to the Pandyssian Continent to build wells and accurately portray the natives’ culture. In exchange, the native women (far more civilized than believed on the Isles) introduced her to their rich almonds. After her husband passed away, she sponsored an innovative orphanage in Tyvia, where the children complained to her about the sardines they despised so much. Around that same time, she had purchased two abandoned vineyards in order to put an impoverished Serkonian village to work; a thankful, old man informed her of the Serkonian olives. 

As a result, several Pandyssian tribes currently had clean water to drink, a certain Tyvian orphanage taught unfortunate youngsters how to take their rightful place in society, a picturesque, Serkonian village imported wine all over the Isles and prospered, and after twenty years, Vera had maintained good health and the best parts of her looks. 

Her regime was daily but very simple. After waking up, she would wash her face and rub almond oil all over it. Next, she would swallow a teaspoon full of olive oil and eat a can of Tyvian sardines with breakfast. Sometimes, she would eat another can during the day as a snack. Then, at night, after taking a bath, she would rub her damp body with a blend of olive and almond oil. She had followed these steps without fail, as did those whom she had entrusted the secret. 

Big business, she believed, had no right to bastardize beauty for profit. 

This day, this morning, proved no different against her methods. Vera woke up at her usual time; she needed no alarm clock. After washing and anointing her ravishing face, she ordered a healthy breakfast from room service. She swallowed her oil and gobbled her sardines (edible bones and all) as she waited. By the time the server rang her doorbell, she greeted him with a glowing face and a wisp of white in her dark, fluffed up hair. 

She hadn’t changed out of her baby blue empire nightgown and instead covered herself with a matching, lace peignoir. Fastened by a bow below her chest, the peignoir trailed behind her like a waterfall. She recognized the server’s face and name (Brian) and chatted briefly with him, leaning casually against the threshold. 

In his eyes, he was serving a queen… and it was best to behave like it! 

Vera kindly let him in, and he set her food on a table. She sent him off with a generous tip. She was famous in the Pandyssia (the hotel, not the continent) for dishing out large tips. 

However, when she sat down to enjoy her meal, she heard her cell phone make a beeping sound. She had a message. Vera gracefully rose out of her chair and made a quick beeline for her bedroom. Her sleek, gray button phone (complete with a button that sported a tribal insignia and a whale silhouette) was sitting on her nightstand. She opened the phone, and the text appeared on the screen. 

“Come to the Hound Pits. Now.” 

Vera smirked lightly and closed the phone again. She returned to her dining table, picked up her plates, and put them in her refrigerator. She would just have to eat it when she came back. 

After all, no one kept The Outsider waiting.

 

00000

 

Hiram Burrows had called a short meeting in the study of his suite. Teague Martin—a relatively young man of a subdued image—sauntered in first, wearing a simple black suit; as the head of security, he preferred never to be noticed. 

“You called, sir?” Martin greeted. 

“In a minute,” Burrows replied sharply. “Wait for Campbell.” 

Martin bowed his head. And then he smiled. 

“I heard you're getting a painting done of your new ladyfriend,” he said. “Sokolov's quite expensive.” 

Burrows frowned. “Not as expensive as your mother's hospital bills...” 

Martin clamped his mouth shut. 

Someone else knocked at the door, and he was let in. Thaddeus Campbell, a bald and stocky man, trudged into the suite, wearing an impressive gunmetal suit. Teague took his place next to the older man. In spite of their differing appearance, they both wanted to know what on the Isles their superior wanted. 

A woman from room service arrived, bringing a tray of coffee and pastries for the men. She carefully arranged it on a table. 

Burrows presented them both with two distinct sections of the Dunwall Times, both from different dates from the past two weeks. The woman gave them a causal glance and continued to work. 

“Gentleman,” Burrows began proudly, “I believe we know who the spy is! And these articles prove it!” 

Campbell and Martin exchanged incredulous looks before giving their superior the most undivided attention. 

“What do you see in these articles?” Burrows asked. 

Campbell, who had scanned them before, answered readily. “The first article—the earlier one—discusses the disappearance of Corvo Attano, a successful pianist and composer from Serkonos. He allegedly left his childhood home in Karnaca and hasn’t been seen or heard from ever since. Additionally, he had annulled his marriage to his wife, due to her infidelity. It was also heavily implied that his departure caused both himself and his older half-brother, Daud Salazar, to lose the majority of their inheritance and the Salazar Firm. The one dated yesterday reveals that it was The Outsider—or so he’s called—who laid claim to that inheritance.” 

Burrows nodded, very satisfied with his answer, continued. 

“It has come to my attention,” he said, “that Corvo Attano is not missing any longer. He is now actually staying at this hotel. Supposedly, as a resident.” 

The subordinates remained silent for a moment. Burrows paused for effect and for a verbal answer. 

“So,” Martin spoke up, “because this Mr. Attano has obvious connections with The Outsider… you believe that _**he**_ is The Outsider’s representative?” 

“How else can you explain it?” Burrows replied. “That blasted man sends the word that he’s about to send a spy to examine us… and within two weeks, Mr. Attano shows up? What other explanation is there?” 

 _But The Outsider has connections with many people,_ Martin wanted to say, but he knew better than to mention it. 

Burrows scowled in disgust and began to pace about the study. He looked upon his desk and noticed that one of his pencils with sticking in the opposite direction of the rest and quickly righted it. 

“But for the life of me,” he scoffed, “why did he have to send a bloody Serkonian to do it? A man who probably sold his own brother out to throw in his lot with…” 

Martin looked away and coughed. 

“What would you have us do then?” Campbell asked. 

“Isn’t that already crystal clear? We make sure that… _Mr. Attano_ has the most pleasant stay possible. That big, fat sponsorship is riding on this!” 

Meanwhile, the female server left quietly, pushing a cart out of the suite. As soon as she was outside in the hall, she took out a cell phone from her apron pocket. She pressed the “whale button” on its back surface and put it to her ear.

 

00000

 

“ _Come to the Hound Pits. Now.”_  

That’s what the text had said, and that’s what Corvo was on his way to do. And he knew what the Hound Pits was; it was a bar that was on the seventh floor in the hotel. Nevertheless, as he waited for the elevator, there was only one thing that was on his mind: 

 _Why, in a five-star establishment, would they call their bar ‘The Hound Pits’?_  

He crossed his arms against his chest, avoiding putting his hands in his pockets. 

Before the elevator came up, a woman came from down the hall and stood beside him. And also, she waited. 

Corvo turned to look at her, and his heart skipped a beat. No, it wasn’t because she had a very lovely face, from what he could see with her large sunglasses. It was a very familiar face; he quickly recognized her square jaw and her full lips. It was clear that she had aged, but her skin was still as smooth as he had last seen it. She had put on weight, but it had been much needed; the extra pounds deliciously filled out her curves. Her jungle green skirt and vest didn’t do it justice. 

“Hello, Lady Moray,” he said. 

Vera glared at him over her glasses. “Hello, Mister Corvo. Why can’t you just call me ‘Granny Rags’ like the rest of my close ones? I’m beginning to think that you don’t like me.” 

“You’re an aristocrat,” Corvo insisted. 

“My father is still head of the family.” 

“And your point is…?” 

She sighed and forcibly wrapped her arm around his. “Very well, dear. Very well.” 

“By the way,” he said, “how is your father?” 

“A gout,” she replied briefly. 

Corvo hummed in sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.” 

“Don’t be. He enjoys watching people wait on him because of it. He won’t even take my advice. But never mind that. Why are you here of all places?” 

“I was about to ask you the same thing. Don’t you have three homes to stay in? One in Morley. One in Whitecliff. The other one in…” 

“I like the food here. And I wanted a change of scenery.” 

“Why didn’t you just hire one of the chefs for yourself?” 

Vera’s expression darkened, and her eyebrows gathered. “That would be a positively selfish thing to do!” 

Corvo smiled. He expected that answer. 

The elevator finally opened, and they both stepped inside. Corvo asked for the seventh floor. Vera said nothing, and the elevator went downward. 

“So, why are **you** here?” she asked again. 

“After a fashion, I have a benefactor,” he replied. “He instructed me to stay here.” 

Vera nodded. “I see. And where are you off to now?” 

“The Hound Pits.” 

She snatched off her glasses and stared at him. She was wide-eyed and shocked. 

“You too?” she asked. 

Corvo parted his lips in confusion. “ _ **You’re**_ going to the Hound Pits?” 

“I have a meeting. Which must be why _**you’re**_ going.” 

They looked each in the eye, somehow communicating the whole truth without words.

 

00000

 

The Hound Pits actually lived somewhat to its name. The overall layout and décor was a decidedly elegant mockery of an old-style pub in Morley, with a sign just outside of the entrance, a fine wooden floor, and a very spiffy looking bar. Above them, there was a second floor of tables. Behind the counter, a barmaid was making a few Bellini. 

Vera took her seat at an already prepared table; it was set for three, with an assortment of fruit preserves, butter, and marmalade at the side and plates stacked in the center. Corvo walked up to the bar, and the bartender gave him a cheerful smile as she continued to mix the drinks. 

The woman was a shorthaired redhead with an honest and distinctively attractive face. She wore a special uniform for the bar: a brown vest, matching pants, a bleach white blouse with a severe cut, and an orange bowtie. Her nametag read “Cecelia Erskine”. 

“Excuse me, miss?” Corvo said. 

“Yes, sir?” Cecelia responded. 

“Would you mind telling me…” he began, “…that is… why is this place called the Hound Pits?” 

Cecelia simpered; she had been asked that question before. “The late Mr. Kaldwin, the owner of this hotel… he really liked T.E. Slackjaw novels. The crime thrillers especially. The bar is named after one of the titles.” 

“Ah…” Corvo breathed in understanding. 

“You should give it a breeze sometime,” she recommended. “It’s still a bestseller. You can buy a copy at the gift shop.”

 

00000

 

In the kitchen of the Hounds Pit, Farley Havelock was currently taking out his aggression on an omelet frying in a skillet. In another skillet beside it, a mountain of breakfast potatoes were sitting inside, staying warm at a gentle heat. On the back burner, Serkonian style sausages were being boiled; they were almost done. 

The entire Isles was sizzling on his stove: finely crisped Morley potatoes, Serkonian spices in everything, organic eggs from a local produce, Tyvian cream blended in the omelet mixture, and Pandyssian sea salt sprinkled in everything. And yet, none of the food was being prepared with love… but with hatred. 

“I am the manager of the Hound Pits,” he grumbled quietly, “making my home in the finest hotel in all of Dunwall, a five-star hotel! And yet, I’ve been reduced to being a common cook!? What is the world coming to!?” 

A bit of grease popped and stung against his arm. “Ouch!”

 

00000

 

A few minutes later, a man entered the faux-pub. Corvo watched him from the prepared table… and then, gave him a perplexed look. The new arrival, the man, reminded him of one of his former piano teachers when he used to live in Bastillian. Judging by the peculiar glasses he wore and the creases under his receding hairline, Corvo imagined him to be a professor or a scholar of some sort. His causal dress suggested that he was not a patron of the hotel, but he was not one to judge. 

The man sat down next to Vera, who was casually sipping on her cocktail. He stared at her for a moment, remembering her face. 

“Excuse me,” he began, “…but are you…” 

“Yes, I’m Lady Moray,” she replied calmly. 

“I see,” he replied. He offered his hand to her. “I’m Professor Piero Joplin.” 

Vera looked at his hand, as if she was cautiously inspecting it. She disliked the sanitary risk of shaking hands and preferred the Pandyssian style of bowing instead. After a pause, she politely gave him her gloved hand in greeting. 

“And who are you?” Piero asked Corvo, reaching across the table. 

“Corvo Attano,” he replied. 

There was glimmer of recognition in his eyes as they shook hands. Piero’s face twisted in slight dismay, and he shrank in his seat. “Lovely,” he said quietly. “I’m the only one here who’s a ruddy nobody!” 

Corvo stifled a laugh. He knew that his name was known, especially amongst enthusiasts of fine music, but he had never considered himself an international celebrity or anyone of real importance. 

Noticing that all were present, Cecelia left the bar and went into the kitchen. She returned with a large, round tray, laden with a basket of toast, serving utensils, three covered dishes with glass tops…and an envelope. She jovially set it all on the table around them and left them to their banquet with a bounce in her step. 

Vera gingerly slid off her gloves, folded them, and dropped them into her purse. “I must say…he interrupted my very healthy breakfast.” 

Piero was the first to discover the potatoes. Corvo, however, was more interested in the envelope. 

Vera uncovered the Serkonian sausages and drew them to Corvo’s attention. He happily allowed her to put some on his plate. It proved to be a good distraction. But for some reason, he sensed that something was amiss… the moment he smelled the sausages. Something about the aroma didn’t set right with him. 

Nevertheless, he cut into it and took a bite… and resisted the violent urge to spit it out on the floor. _These “Serkonian” sausages are disgusting!_  

“I should warn you,” Vera said. “In Dunwall, the Serkonian style sausages don’t quite taste the same.” 

“Thank you for the warning,” Corvo replied dryly. He pushed the meat to the side and resorted to the omelet. 

While thoroughly enjoying his meal, Piero noted the envelope on the table. “Shouldn’t we open that?” 

“Yes, I suppose we should,” Vera agreed. She picked up the envelope and quickly tore a clean cut with her nail. The paper inside had a rose border around the contents. The letter was clearly written in advance. 

“This is for all of us,” she said. “Obviously.” 

She took a deep breath and read the letter aloud:

 

 _Hello dear participants:_  

 

 _I trust that this letter will find all of you well and intact. But let’s skip the formalities and get straight to the heart of the matter._  

_First, I have five rules to lay down:_

 

  1. _You will not verbally reveal your association with me._

  2. _You will follow my instructions to the “T”, no matter what I instruct you to do. And don’t worry; it won’t be illegal._

  3. _You will not disclose the purpose of your actions to anyone._

  4. _You will not leave this hotel for the rest of the month, unless accompanied by a chauffer._

  5. _You will all meet twice a week to discuss each other’s progress. How you arrange this is your problem._




 

 _Is that all clear?_  

_Now, to business. As you are all aware, thanks to the actions of certain someone—yes, Corvo, I mean you—I have obtained full rights to the Salazar Law Firm. By now, this is old news to all you; however, because of Mr. Attano’s involvement in the event, it’s not hard for others to assume his connection with me. Additionally, a few weeks ago, I had a discussion with the new owner of the Kaldwin Hotel Chain—this resident hotel being one of them—and informed the owner that I would be sending an unidentified representative to the hotel, in order to ascertain whether or not I would continue my sponsorship to her establishments. Because of the timing of my possession of SLF, along with Mr. Attano’s deep involvement, and finally, his sudden appearance in the Pandyssia, Kaldwin’s flagship hotel, I made a firm prediction: the management would automatically assume that the representative was him._

 

“W-w-wait! What!?” Corvo cried. 

Vera held up her hand. “There’s more.”

 

 _I have no doubt that one of my people will confirm this. And I have decided to take this to my advantage. So, here is my first and universal order to all of you:_  

_I want to see you dance._

 

The trio stopped dead. They gave each other confused looks and somehow managed a simultaneous, “Huh!?”

 

 _You are to draw as much attention upon yourselves as humanly possible. And there’s no need for you to conjure up your own antics; I’ll supply you with the guidance… and the means to do so, if that is necessary. My orders can range from issuing extravagant demands to the staff to holding impromptu soirées for occasions of my choosing. Though, if you manage to think something up by yourselves, I will be watching with_ _**great** _ _interest._  

 _Please understand. I’m not trying to make monkeys out of you. I simply want to push the limits on the capacity, patience, and endurance of the management. And besides, it’s fascinating to watch them squirm._  

 _If you follow my instructions and obey my rules, there is a personal reward for all of you. For Lady Moray, I will gladly hand over one of my estates in Morley, so that she will be able to set up another orphanage. For Professor Joplin, since you have impressed me well enough, I will settle a contract on you to build and manufacture some of my pet projects. And for my dear Corvo, I will give an exact double portion of the inheritance he was promised._  

_With that, there is nothing else to say. Have fun, and remember: don’t stop dancing._

 

 _Farewell, Gypsies_  

_-The Outsider_

 

The three of them sat in bewildered silence. The smell of the food was nearly lost to them. 

“He once told me…” Vera finally said, “that one of his estates in Morley… was over twenty thousand square feet. Who knows how many children I could fit in it!” 

“A contract,” Piero mumbled. “A whopper of a contract… with The Outsider himself!”

 “A double portion,” Corvo whispered reflectively. “That’s quite a lot of coin.” 

He absentmindedly served himself potatoes. 

Vera calmed herself and giddily cut into her omelet. She bit into a piece and suddenly frowned. She grabbed a napkin, shielded her lips, and gently took something off of her tongue. After swallowing her food, she announced, “The cook left eggshells in this omelet!”

 

00000

 

Inside the kitchen of the Hound Pits, Cecelia was washing the pans. Her manager, Havelock was having a Morley coffee with an extra shot of whisky. 

And suddenly, he sneezed. 


	4. Gentlemen callers

After a leisurely breakfast, the three “participants” went their separate ways for the day. Piero went away, grumbling about the inevitability of Sokolov finding out that they were staying inside the same building; he shuddered at the thought.Vera—having eaten little—finished her healthy meal and summoned the chauffer to go to her business office. Corvo returned to his room, to think... and to practice on his piano.

As the remains of the day slowly approached, Vera playfully called Corvo out for dinner. He met her at the Café Pandyssia without protest.

When he entered the restaurant, he felt as if he had stepped into a classic movie. The entire room was elegant, sprawling, and yet, somehow, it had an almost intimate atmosphere. The furniture was made up of subdued colors, and the walls were decorated with murals of dancers and musicians, probably restored from some bygone era. And to top it all off, someone was playing a piano in the background.

Vera had already ordered a large serving of caviar, melba toast, cream cheese, and a bottle of champagne. She was dressed comfortably yet appropriately, with a burgundy, long sleeve dress and a pearl necklace, and her hair was pinned up in a plaited bun. Corvo wore a plain, black suit and made sure that his hair was slicked back.

“Glad you could join me,” Vera said to him.

“Hello again, Lady Moray,” he replied with a smile.

Vera puffed out her nostrils in response and sipped on her champagne. Corvo sat down.

“You wanted company?” he asked.

“No,” she answered. “I wanted to talk to you. About that disaster in Karnaca.”

Corvo snorted in displeasure.

“But before we get into _**that**_ ,” she continued, with a toothy grin, “I need to ask. What do you think of The Outsider? From your limited perspective?”

“To put it bluntly,” he replied honestly, “he makes my skin crawl.”

Vera giggled and nodded assent. “Yes… yes, he is… rather strange… but you’ll be used to him soon enough.”

“So, you’ve been doing business with him for some time,” Corvo said.

It wasn’t a question.

“I have,” Vera admitted. “It’s been about ten years now, when I purchased that vineyard in Serkonos. He was a potential buyer… but he allowed me to have it. For a certain price.”

“So, by chance?” he asked.

“No. I supposedly caught his interest when I set up that orphanage in Tyvia. He even read up on my late husband’s exploits.”

“Stalker much?”

“More of… an admirer.”

“Admirer?”

A waiter came by and poured Corvo a drink. He refilled Vera’s nearly empty glass and disappeared.

“I’m probably one of the very few people on the Isles… who has ever seen his face. He thought it was only proper.”

“Proper?”

“He courts me on and off. When he isn’t too busy. And he’s asked me to marry him before.”

Corvo blanched in shock. “What!?”

“Twice, actually,” she went on, holding up two fingers. “The first time was a year before you got married, and the second time was three months before you pulled off _**that stunt**_. The first time, it was easy to say ‘no’. The second time, I nearly said ‘yes’.”

“How old is he exactly?”

“His late forties, I believe. But you know how faces can be deceiving.”

“And he knows you’re in your mid-fifties, right?”

Vera gave him a half-smile and finally helped herself to her caviar.

“On the Isles,” she said, “The Outsider has many titles. One of which is ‘the god of information’. So, of course he knows I’m over fifty.”

“I commend him for his open-mindedness,” Corvo declared. “And you almost said yes?”

“Aren’t you going to have any caviar, dear?”

He did.

“He’s different from my other ‘gentlemen callers’,” she explained. “Nowadays, most men try to buy you with jewelry and expensive toys. But not him… he does it right. He takes me to nice places, and we have long, intellectual conversations. And he sends me books, flowers, stuffed animals… and chocolates! Mmmm.”

“That’s the _right_ way?” Corvo asked incredulously.

“Yes!” she rejoined confidently. “It’s simple, and you can be easily creative and thoughtful with it. Besides, the only time a man should start dishing out rocks is when he goes to buy an engagement ring. And clothes are out of the question too! A man shouldn’t have to ‘buy’ a woman into marrying him.”

“But what if the woman insists on having ‘rocks’?” he prodded.

Vera huffed. “Then she isn’t worth your time.”

“You should’ve told me that before I got married.”

“Yes…” she murmured, her tone becoming serious.

They finished their caviar in silence. After the table was cleared, the waiter took their orders with precision and left. Vera sighed after he had gone; whether it was out of fatigue or deep thought, Corvo wasn’t sure.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” she said. “When you left your wife, why did you annul the marriage… instead of divorcing her?”

“I thought it was fitting,” he replied. “Rather than saying ‘you are no longer my wife’, and I wanted to say, ‘You were never my wife in the first place’…”

Vera tugged at her collar. “Brrrr!”

Corvo chuckled devilishly.

“Well, it was awfully brave you,” she said, “leaving your home like that… not knowing just **what** The Outsider had to offer you. Most people would have thought that you’d lost your bloody mind.”

“Better a brave lunatic than a greedy coward,” he replied. “It was a lot of money to give up... but I couldn't let him make a fool of me anymore. I... I just couldn't. He's humiliated me so many times—in private—and this is the worst he could've possibly done. Now, he's sore because I've done the same to him public, for the whole of the Isles to see, and it’s all in my favor.”

“ **Well** said! No regrets?”

“Maybe. But not really.”

“Even when…you’ve caused own brother to lose his precious company? Don't you care even a little bit?”

“No.”

It came out of his mouth before he realized he had spoken. Corvo went silent. He took a deep breath and shook his head.

“This was the game he decided to play with me,” he replied, “So I finished it. It's not my problem. Not anymore. And why should it be? He couldn't even drink from his own well.”

Vera nodded in allowance. “Well, that's true.”

“Between Daud and me,” he continued. “I’ve often wondered which one of us was born the _real_ bastard. Damn it... I'd like to think I'm a giving person. And I give much more than money. And more than anyone else, I gave the most to **him**. _To_ _ **him**_. Just to keep the peace.”

He shook his head again, replaying the whole year-long disaster in his mind. Vera remained quiet and let him talk.

“I always knew he hated me,” Corvo said. “He never made any secret of it. After all, I was proof that my father was a philandering schmuck. Never justified the way he treated _me_ , but I understood. And everything he did, I just took it. I just... took it.”

Vera poured him another glass.

“And when Father died, when that will was read, I wasn't just because of the money. I knew Daud wanted the company. So, I swallowed my pride and agreed to the terms. As if living with him before wasn't hell enough. I gave to Daud. I gave, and I gave, and I gave, and I gave!”

He sighed sharply and downed half of the glass.

“But here’s something that he never understood about me,” he said coldly. “As much as I’m willing to give to you, I expect to have what I’ve kept back for myself. And if you have the balls to _screw me over_ for it… I will burn you. I’ll burn you, and I’ll happily, sincerely, thoroughly enjoy—from the bottom of my heart—watching your skin peel... Off. Of. Your. Flesh.”

“Ah!” Vera replied. “You _are_ your father's son. Wrong side of the blanket or not.”

“Damn straight I am.”

 

00000

 

Meanwhile, Jessamine and Emily walked hand in hand into the restaurant. One of the hostesses gestured to them and led them towards a table. And yet, once they were in the middle of the room, Emily spotted Corvo, sitting at a table… with…

_Granny Rags?_ she thought.

Emily waited until the hostess had taken them to their table, a corner booth. As soon as her mother’s back was turned, she scampered off towards Corvo’s table in order to “say hello”.

“Corvo!” a little voice sang.

He felt a small hand touch his arm. Turning around, he saw Emily, standing right behind his chair, with a bright smile and twinkling eyes. She looked adorable in her purple dress and hair ribbons. Vera leaned over to stare.

“Hi!” she squeaked.

“Hello, there,” Corvo greeted her softly. “Fancy meeting you again! But… aren’t you with your…”

“Do you play the piano?” Emily asked.

“Um… yes. I do.”

“Mr. Burrows said you're a pianist.”

Corvo frowned, very perplexed. “Mr. Burrows?”

Emily briefly turned her attention towards Vera, sizing her up.

“Granny Rags, are you his girlfriend?” she asked defensively.

Corvo let out a wheezing cough. Vera smiled blankly.

“He’s not my type, dear,” she declared soundly.

Jessamine, who had already noticed her missing daughter, came marching up to their table, driving the conversation into a halt. “Em-i-ly.”

Emily winced in the wake of her mother’s scolding but quietly held her ground. Corvo looked up and saw her face.

She was beautiful. Jessamine Kaldwin was very beautiful. No, she was not glamorous in any sort of way, but had a rather quiet and pleasant sort of attractiveness. She wore little make-up, and the way she dressed was simple yet stylish, as only a lovely mother would usually dress.

“I’m sorry,” said Jessamine. “I hope she hasn’t bothered you…”

Corvo found his voice.

“No,” he replied. “Not at all. She's charming.”

He looked at Emily and patted her shoulder. “Emily is a good girl.”

“I see that your weakness for children hasn’t diminished!” Vera simpered.

Corvo narrowed his eyes at the older woman. She merely responded with a smirk and wagged her head.

Jessamine gently put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Darling, why don’t we go and leave these people to…”

Emily persisted. She reached out and grasped Corvo’s arm.

“You see! Corvo cleans up really nice,” she proclaimed. “But… he isn’t wearing the black coat…”

“The black coat?” her mother asked.

“Yes! He was wearing it when he carried his suitcases in.”

Jessamine was promptly stung.

Corvo went gray. _That was NOT something I wanted to relive!_

Jessamine stared hard at the man sitting before her. He barely looked like _that poor, hapless man,_ who came slogging into her hotel out of the middle of nowhere, without a car, wearing that old coat, laboring with his own bags, looking as if he had stepped into the wrong building. But this man… he was well groomed, well dressed, and behaved in a manner that clearly matched with the hotel’s protocol.

Her daughter had to be mistaken, she believed. She had to be mistaken.

Corvo held up his hand to vindicate himself. “That’s the worst you’ll ever see of me, Senhora. Trust me.”

Her line of logic was crushed.

“Um… and you are…?” she asked feebly.

Corvo politely stood up and reached out his hand. “Excuse me. I’m Attano. Corvo Attano.”

“Jessamine Kaldwin,” she replied with authority. His handshake, she noted, was warm and firm.

She paused, processing his name. “Corvo Attano? The… composer?”

“I seem to be well-known in this hotel,” he commented.

“Everyone who knows about Salazar automatically knows your name. The papers said you'd been missing for two weeks.”

Corvo cleared his throat in embarassment. “Heaven help me. I must be the talk of the Isles.”

“Well, it is only natural,” Jessamine replied. “ After all, it's SLF.”

In the background, Vera and Emily exchanged furtive glances. Emily raised her eyebrows with a smug curl at the lips. The older woman had a brief revelation and mouthed an inaudible “Aha!” She took her clutch purse and rose from her seat.

“I’ll be retiring to my room now,” the great Lady Moray announced.

Corvo turned in surprise. Vera slipped away from the table.

“Tell them to deliver my dinner to room 2720,” she instructed.

“What?” he questioned. “Why?”

“Oh, I think it’s best I made myself scarce,” she replied cryptically.

“But you were the one who asked me to be here.”

“You of all people should know that life changes quickly. I’m just going with the flow. You should keep doing the same. Thanks for eating caviar with me. Ciao!”

And Lady Vera Moray sashayed out of the Café Pandyssia, in spite of his mumbled protests. She waved her hand without looking back. Corvo watched with his mouth wide open.

_What exactly just happened?_ he wondered, wholly mystified.

“I beg your pardon,” said Jessamine. “Have we ruined your evening?”

He collected himself and denied it. “Not at all. She just decided to quit for the night.”

_I don’t know which would feel stranger,_ he thought. _Eating the meal I ordered in my room or staying down here alone…_

“Since, he’s all alone,” Emily began. “Can he eat with us?”

Corvo and Jessamine gaped at the little girl, shocked by the suggestion.

_Then again,_ he mused, _I don’t know what would be uneasier than suddenly eating dinner with someone you only met two minutes ago._

But he gazed at Jessamine’s stunning face as she looked to him for an answer (or support).

_On the other hand…_

 

00000

 

Vera quietly entered her suite and shut the door.

The hall light had been turned on, and she was certain that she had only left on a lamp in her living room.

_Maybe,_ she surmised, _a maid left it on when she turned down my bed._

She shrugged with some indifference, passed by a niche in the hallway… and stopped. Sitting inside of the opening, there was a small plush toy that was shaped like a rodent. Flanking the toy, there was a small vase with a single, Pandyssian orchid and book on the medieval history of Morley. On top of the book, there was a very large bar of solid, Tyvian chocolate.

Vera burst out laughing.

 

00000

 

And so, Corvo found himself enjoying a somewhat quiet dinner with Jessamine Kaldwin and plotting, little Emily. He quickly adjusted to the idea. Emily engaged him almost non-stop in simple conversation, which her mother took little part in. He answered all of her questions with a willing smile, and thankfully, none of them were too personal or embarrassing. Miss Emily was a lady.

After finishing the appetizers, they waited quite a while for main course to come. Emily left her seat out of “boredom”, with her mother’s permission this time, and ventured over to the pianist to play. Jessamine watched as Emily leaned against the white pianoforte. The pianist gave the girl a wink and moved over the piano’s keys like the rolling waves of the sea.

The patrons and the diners merely savored the food. Others, Corvo among them, sat still and listened to the music. At times, he had his eyes closed, and when not, he was enjoying a glass of dark wine.

At about this time, Anton Sokolov entered the restaurant, looking very out of sorts in a fancy suit. As the hostess led him through, he passed right by their table… and stopped.

At that moment, Corvo sat very still, eyes closed, taking slow, heavy breaths. There was a strangely, paradoxically serene aura that came off his rugged features. His face was virtually expressionless. The artist in Professor Sokolov sprang up, and he wondered if Corvo’s hair looked better when untied. But, the hostess had noticed his stalling, and he forced himself to steal away… for the time being.

 

Jessamine barely glanced at him, her eyes trained on Emily. “She had a piano teacher until about a month ago.”

“A month ago?” Corvo replied. “Did she get bored with it?”

“No... he turned out to be skirt-chaser. Gave her nanny some trouble.”

“That's... unfortunate.”

Once in a while, Corvo suddenly drew crinkles between his eyebrows, and his ears subtly twitched, almost on reflex. Jessamine happened to notice this strange quirk more than once. On a fourth time, he did it again while finishing his glass.

“Is there something wrong?” she asked in concern.

Corvo smiled blankly, remembering himself. “Oh no. It’s nothing… nothing important.”

A waiter poured him a second glass, the last of the alcohol he would have that night. Though very tolerant, he usually preferred not to be reckless.

The song ended, signaling the end of the pianist’s performance. In a half-hour, a cabaret-style show was going to begin. The diners clapped in response, and the pianist bowed. With a single wiggle of her finger, Emily urged him down on one knee, and she whispered something in his ear.

The pianist’s face brightened, and he straightened up. Emily walked back to the table with a delighted gait, and he was following close behind. Jessamine blinked curiously.

“Hello, Ms. Kaldwin,” he greeted, bowing his head low.

“Hello,” she replied.

“Ah, and Mr. Attano!” he said joyfully. “It’s an honor.”

The pianist introduced himself and offered his hand. Corvo gave it a brief shake without getting up. He examined the pianist’s manner: a decent yet not high-class upbringing (which he believed to a benefit), sharp appearance, cheerful personality, and—by the look on the younger man’s face—slightly overconfident.

“And it’s a pleasure,” Corvo replied.

The pianist leaned close for a more private comment. “Nice number you pulled on that two-timing strumpet.”

“Thank you.”

He coughed, withdrawing, and hoped the Emily hadn’t heard. “And did you enjoy my performance?”

Corvo became stern, without meaning to. He was expecting that question. “A nearly flawless rendition.”

“Nearly?” he asked, focusing on the crucial word.

“I’ve heard you play eight, lengthy songs since I came here,” Corvo said. “You were following the original versions with your own flair, and that’s good, but you missed a quite few notes.”

The pianist stiffened. “Erp!”

“Ten in total,” he recalled. “No… it was twelve. And there wasn’t enough heart in the second to last piece; you got a bit sluggish on a few bars. You were especially off on that particular number. You only recently learned it, didn’t you?”

The pianist nodded regretfully.

Jessamine watched the verbal critique with some confusion. She couldn’t grasp a word he was saying.

“I don’t mean to be to offensive, though,” Corvo waved it off with a smile. “Everyone has off days, right?”

“Of…c-course…”

“So, if you’re a better pianist,” Emily interjected. “Would you play me a song too? Right now?”

Her mother gave her an authoritative glare, and Emily shrank. Corvo frowned, slightly reluctant to consent to the little girl’s wishes. He wasn’t sure if he was prepared to perform in front of a crowd, no matter how small it seemed. But the pianist spoke up.

“That would be a nice treat for the patrons,” he added, trying to change the subject. “I think the manager would be thrilled!”

Emily nodded vigorously.

Corvo realized that the surrounding diners’ chatter had undeniably lessened. People were staring at their table. People were staring at him.

_The Outsider did say to draw attention on myself,_ he remembered.

“I don’t mind a little performance,” he said. “Never deny a lady.”

Jessamine sighed in acquiescence. _Dear Emily… the world spoils you!_

“Just one, Emily,” she replied firmly. “No more. The restaurant has to prepare for the show.”

Emily grinned in satisfaction.

Corvo stood up, righting the wrinkles on his suit jacket. He allowed the shaken musician to lead him to the piano, and Emily trotted eagerly at his heels. Jessamine beamed with a twinkle in her eye.

Sitting down on the piano’s bench, Corvo seemed to be ever conscious that this was only a temporary instrument for him. He always made the best of things that weren’t permanent. He set the music sheets aside, while the pianist sat Emily on top of the piano. He moved his neck from side to side, took a deep breath, hovered his fingers over the keys, and simply began.

Jessamine looked on as the waiter finally came with their food.

She wasn’t a music aficionado; she had never found the time to be one. Nevertheless, she had always been keen on attending concerts and recitals. And often times, her lack of knowledge always sprang up questions in her analytical mind. Questions that—she often thought—would always go unanswered.

For instance, Jessamine was always agog on the physical movement of pianists. Why were some so lively and animated as they worked their fingers upon the keys…while others behaved as if they were using a typewriter. Or why some were calm at one point and intense at another. After a while, she had come to assume that it was based on the musicians’ varied souls, their talent level, and the overall difficulty of the pieces they played. Though, she steadfastly believed this speculation to be correct.

And Corvo appeared to be of the lively category, with a currently relaxed disposition. His eyes were half-closed (or even completely closed), as if in a dreamlike haze, and he swayed over the keys; his hands seemed almost unhurried, even as they became extremely attentive and the melodies quickened. Not a movement was forced out of him, and if one didn’t know any better, it appeared as if a child was absentmindedly, diligently, absorbedly playing with a familiar toy… while thinking intently of something else.

_It’s only natural,_ Jessamine mused. _That’s what masters are often like._

Corvo gave Emily a silly grin and quickly flicked out his tongue. Emily covered her mouth and giggled.

Jessamine suddenly remembered an image, one that looked almost identical to the scene before her. One of a man and a child sitting together, laughing and having fun… though, it never necessarily had a piano involved. She had often imagined, in times past, that she would certainly see it play out before her eyes on a daily basis. But, just as quickly as that dream had formed in her mind, it had just as quickly been dashed to pieces. Mercilessly.

She swallowed a lump in her throat but kept watching. Her daughter, after all, was there.

As the song finished and the patrons clapped enthusiastically, Emily stated candidly, “Corvo runs circles around you.”

The pianist groaned. “Miss Emily, please don’t compare me to someone who composes his own music and has perfect pitch.”

“What’s perfect pitch?”

 

00000

 

Callista was glad her employer was out for the night. When Jessamine had announced she was taking Emily to the Cafe Pandyssia, she had been relieved to no longer need an excuse to sneak out. The situation was dire enough as it was.

As soon as they had left, she took off her blouse and pencil skirt and changed into more casual clothes—a t-shirt and jeans. She tugged on baggy hooded jacket, stuffed her room key her pocket, and left the penthouse, dreading the rest of the evening.

Down the special elevator and into one of the common halls, she walked up to one of the small suites and rang the doorbell. Teague Martin answered the door with a grim frown.

“Hi, Teague,” she said in a low voice.

He gave her a brusque nod and let her inside. He waited until the door clanked shut before he spoke.

“You ready for this?” asked Martin.

“Of course I am!” Callista snapped. She regretted her tone immediately. “I... I want to catch him in the act—the bastard.”

“Good,” he replied. He lead her to the table, where he picked up a small velvet pouch. He dropped it in her hand. “Here you go.”

She opened the pouch and shook the contents out into her hand. It was a necklace with an antique ladybug pendant. She raised an eyebrow and looked towards the desk. A strange black box was sitting near some papers.

“That's it?”

Martin grinned and nodded. “Yes. That's it.”

“Wow... it looks so... normal.”

“That's the general idea.”

Callista was almost able to laugh. “Where did you _find_ this thing? It's so... cute. And innocent.”

“There's a little shop I know on Bottle Street,” he explained. “I should take you there sometime.”

Martin poured himself some whisky from a bottle on the desk. He offered her a glass for Tyvian courage, but she gently refused.

“I'll save that for when I come back,” she said. She undid the clasp on the necklace. He helped her put around her neck.

“And some room service too?” he offered.

“That would be nice.”

Martin opened his arms to her, and she sunk into his embrace. They shared a slow, gentle kiss before pulling back.

“Be careful.” He gave her a warning look before releasing her.

Callista shrugged with a smile. “I've been careful since I was seventeen.”

She turned and left his suite, continuing on her journey. Into the elevator again, she rode down to the seventh floor and went to the Hound Pits.

“I'm here,” she said quietly.

It was in the middle of the week, and the Hound Pits had few patrons for the night. Callista scanned the room, instinctively looking more towards the more secluded seats. On the farthest side of the pub, she spotted a familiar bald man in a nice suit sitting alone at a small booth. He was drinking from a very large beer mug. Callista narrowed her eyes, took a deep, and approached him.

She slide into the opposite seat from him. She didn't bother with a greeting.

“Make this quick,” she muttered. “I have a date.”

Thaddeus Campbell looked up with some surprise, and his face hardened with a cold smile.

“Miss Curnow,” he greeted. “Glad you could come. Care for a pint?”

Callista sighed. “Oh piss off.”

“Suit yourself.” Campbell casually chugged on his beer.

“I have know idea why you want to pick on me,” she said, “but you're wasting your time. I highly doubt that Ms. Kaldwin would fire me for something did when I was teenager. If she doesn't know already. Six years of good service can do that for you.”

Campbell chuckled. “You're right. Ms. Kaldwin is quite the woman. But you know as well as I do... certain people won't be so understanding. Not with your record.”

“So be it,” she replied with a sigh. “I could even go ahead and have a talk with her just to be sure. How's that?”

“Go ahead. No skin off my back.”

Callista went stiff. It was just as she thought.

“Then let's stop pretending.”

“Hmmm?” He leaned closer with interest.

“You're not trying to make any demands,” she replied. “You don't want any 'favors', do you?”

He scoffed. “You're not my type.”

“That's good for me then. And I'm a nanny, so I'm certainly not big on money. I don't even have any connections you could use. But you keep mentioning my uncle.”

Campbell smiled wider and without a word.

Callista sat back in the booth. “So, it's Uncle Geoff then, is it? What on earth could you possibly have against him?”

“Oh no,” he replied. “I have nothing against dear old Geoff. He just has something I happen to want. If he had only just given it to me willingly, none of this would be necessary.”

She turned away with a huff. “You're garbage."

He remained unruffled and continued to enjoy his beer. “All you want out of you is to stay put. Don't say a word. I just want to see your Uncle squirm a little. And don't even think about being brave. This is only a taste of what I have on you.”

She felt the urge to send an uppercut into the side of his face. But she had to endure this. She _had_ to. It was all for Geoff's sake. All for him.

Campbell's darted across her face, and he smirked.

“I'll hand it to you though; you're a far cry from your parents,” he said. “I'll bet Geoff's very proud.” 

Callista pursed her lips. Her heart thump hard in her chest. Her parents. She started feeling sick. What did he know about her parents? How did he know?

“You can be on your way now.” He dismissed her with a wave of the hand. “Give Teague my regards, will you?”

Callista suppressed a shudder. She stood up from the table, her face like stone, and calmly walked out of the Hound Pits. Teague's comfort would be most welcome tonight.

 


	5. Esma Boyle is a rutting hound!

After hearing the words of that letter, Corvo knew he could never hope for another peaceful day. At the very least, he had prayed for one last quiet meal. And so, as he ate his breakfast in solitude, he calmly appreciated the view from his window. It wasn’t dawn just yet, and a small quirk caused him to like that particular time of day… when he managed to wake up early enough.

The Hotel Pandyssia was built just by the waterfront, on the opposite side of the city from whence he arrived. It wasn’t pitch dark, so he could already see the waves crashing against the rocks. It made up quite well for the lack of stars.

His cell phone buzzed, interrupting his enraptured trance. If he hadn’t seen Vera’s caller ID on the screen, he might’ve cursed aloud.

“Hello,” he greeted curiously.

“Corvo!” she replied, without so much as a good morning. “Are you dressed?”

Corvo glanced at his simple, white t-shirt and sweatpants. “For what?”

“Come down to the lobby at once,” she instructed. “Right away. I want you to see something interesting. Bring sunglasses”

“Interesting…?” he asked.

Vera hung up before he could finish. Corvo frowned at his screen.

“Well… alright… then.”

He shrugged cluelessly and went to get his sunglasses.

 

00000

 

Fifteen minutes later, Vera and Corvo stood at a corner of the empty lobby. Vera stood proudly, wearing a navy blue sweats suit of her own design, a large pair of sunglasses, and her hair up in a ponytail. Corvo, meanwhile, wearing clothes that were grungier than the outfit of his arrival, was staring at the spectacle in a stupefied horror. His mouth was opened wide, and his left eye twitched behind his shades.

At the other end, Piero, looking very small and anxious in baggy sweats and a hoodie, was busy vandalizing a wall in the lobby. With a shaky yet quick hand and one of Vera’s unused lipsticks, he wrote a sentence:

 

Esma Boyle is a rutting hound!

 

_Well, she is pretty loose,_ Corvo agreed.  _But that's a bit of an exaggeration..._

On another wall on the far right, Piero had already scrawled:

 

Thaddeus Campbell is an arm-twisting pig!

 

And somewhere near the front entrance:

 

Hiram Burrows is a sneaking rat!

 

“Lady Moray…” Corvo said, in a low and squeaky voice.

“Yes, my dear?” Vera asked.

“Can you tell me again…” he pleaded, “ _ **why**_ The Outsider has asked Mr. Joplin to become a graffiti artist in one of the finest hotels in all of Gristol? And why it has anything to do with… our ‘jobs’?”

“Is has nothing to do with our jobs,” she replied. “This is pure impulse on his part. He called Mr. Joplin up and offered him a good sum of money. He didn’t ask us because we’re not hurting for cash.”

“Why?”

“I texted him asking the same thing. He said that there was a significant reason, but he wouldn’t bother saying why. He even said he was going to do it himself— **with his own two hands** , by the Spirits!—but apparently, some emergency business came up in Morley, so…”

“Isn’t this a crime?”

“It’s not illegal if you don’t get caught.”

Corvo jerked her head towards her in disbelief. “And you’re a _**philanthropist**_ , Lady Moray!?”

Vera shrugged. “Nobody’s perfect.”

With a hint of mischief, Piero attempted to finish the deed off by underlining the entire sentence.

“Hey!” a voice shouted angrily. “What do you think you're doing!?”

Corvo and Vera flinched and turned around. A fuming security guard came barreling towards the scene, making a beeline in Piero’s direction. Piero gasped aloud, stopping in mid-line and took off running like a frightened rabbit. The employee made chase, but Piero was too far ahead to be caught.

“He runs quite fast for a man of such short stature,” Vera declared in genuine awe.

Corvo gave his forehead a rousing smack. _So long, oh peaceful days…_

 

00000

 

Callista quietly left her employer’s suite and took the elevator, down to the third floor. She was already dressed in her usual clothes, her blouse and dark colored skirt, but her hair was down on her shoulders, as her uncle preferred it. She hoped that she hadn’t made him wait too long.

Upon reaching the third floor, she diligently marched through the halls, until she reached The Abbey, where her uncle, Geoff, was waiting for her. He already knew what she liked, so she anticipated that he had already arranged their breakfast. It was a small comfort, but for a person like herself, Callista always appreciated the thought.

The Abbey, an elegant restaurant in its own right, was her favorite place to eat in the hotel. It didn’t have cabaret style shows like the more popular Café Pandyssia, but its layout was like a catacomb, with winding sections and halls. It was a quiet place, usually favored by the older patrons for a good lunch or by couples that wanted a leisurely, atmospheric dinner without fanfare. The paintings and decorative, ornate stained glass always gave her a peace of mind. Her uncle didn’t quite feel the same way, but he enjoyed humoring her.

The establishment wasn’t open yet, but a few high-ranking employees were there as well; early-rising employees often came to the Abbey for a nice breakfast before going off to work.

Geoff was sitting in a booth, their usual spot. He was also already dressed, in a pale gray business suit that wouldn’t wrinkle easily. He gave her a large grin and gestured for her to sit down. Callista smiled weakly and scooted into the seat across from him. As he saw the expression on her face, his mood immediately soured.

“Are you alright?” Geoff asked hopefully.

“I wish,” groaned Callista.

“He didn’t try to touch you, did he?” he questioned, his tone sharpening.

“He wasn't interested in that,” she replied. “Don’t worry.”

As she thought, her uncle had already ordered their tea. He poured a cup for her, and she took a sip to calm her nerves.

“Did you get it?” he inquired.

Callista nodded and reached into her purse. She took out a small, encased disk, smaller than the average CD, and slid it over the table surface.

“Did you test it out?” he asked.

“Yes,” she answered confidently. “Teague played it. It got everything perfectly.”

Geoff sighed in relief and picked up the disk. He tucked it securely into his coat pocket. Callista described the encounter to him in detail, and he nodded in approval.

“Good job,” he replied. “Now rest easy. Everything will be fine now.”

“Why aren't we sending this out right away?” she questioned. “Why do you want to drag this out?

“If at all possible,” he replied. “I'd like to avoid sending altogether. Force him to leave us alone. Let sleeping dogs lie. And it's hard to believe we're the only one Campbell tries to put under his thumb. The whole thing's a can of worms.”

Callista sat back, blinking with wide dark eyes. Geoff sighed into his cup of Gristol Breakfast tea.

“You were the one,” she murmured, “who helped me get me my first job in this hotel. If he spills the beans, you might...” she buried her face in her hands. “Oh, this is my fault. If I hadn't...”

Geoff shook his head. “No. It's... my fault. He came after you because of me.”

“But what does he want from you?” She looked into his eyes with a pleading gaze. “And how did he know about Mum and Dad? What... what's going on here?”

But Geoff shook his head. “Don't ask questions, Callie. Please. You have to trust me on this.”

She sighed, staring down at her tea.

Geoff reached over and touched her hand. “You were only a girl back then… a scared, angry little girl… and I probably wasn’t the best of guardians. So, I’m going to keep taking care of you. I... I'll explain everything when this is over. Okay?”

“But what are you planning to do?”

“What do you think? We might not have taken part in it, but you know our roots. I’m going to have a chat with him. I’m going to tell him to leave us be… **or else**. And if he even tries to approach you again... well, we have no choice.” He patted the disc inside of his pocket with a firm scowl. “I’ll finish him. It'll be a disaster, but he'll never threaten anyone again.”

At that moment, Lydia Brooklaine trotted along the aisle, carrying the Curnows’ breakfast with a strong but dainty hand. With heart, singsong hello and a cheeky smile, she set the plates on their table.

“Two eggs Benedict and the bruschetta,” she announced. “With a side order of breakfast potatoes!”

“You’re as chipper as ever,” Callista replied, lacking enthusiasm.

Lydia stared at her with clueless, wide eyes and pouted childishly. “Still having men trouble?”

 _If only it were as simple as that,_ Callista mused sadly.

Lydia frowned and sighed with a melodramatic flare. She leaned over her good acquaintance, crossing her arms in a matronly fashion.

“Listen,” she advised. “If you want to get rid of unwanted admirers… all you gotta do is get a boyfriend… or at least someone who’s willing to fake it for you. That’s what I did to get Pendleton off my back… one of the bellboys was pretty helpful.”

“The bellboys?”

Geoff looked on with some relieved amusement.

“Not that he was my type,” Lydia admitted with a leering smile. “I like men with accents. Mr. Sokolov is pretty rugged and nice looking for an old man. And that Serkonian bloke who came in a couple of days ago. I believe he’s a pianist…”

“Watch it, Lydia,” Callista warned. “Too much, and you’ll sound just like Esma Boyle.”

Lydia giggled. “I sure hope so!”

 

00000

 

As soon as Esma Boyle heard the news, she exploded into a fury. Right before pouring herself a glass Tyvian wine.

“High-class hotel indeed!” Esma snapped. “Allowing that vandal to… how dare he!? Writing such a vulgar thing in the lobby!”

For the most part, Waverly lounged harem style on the couch as she filed her nails, listening in silence. Lydia, in her indifference, hardly listened to her complaints and busied herself in the corner of the room with her violin. The music was treated as the soundtrack to Esma’s tirade. Waverly could’ve almost laughed.

Esma guzzled the wine in seconds and poured herself another glass; it was much more than the last.

“Drinking in just before noon again?” Waverly deadpanned.

“Who does this person think he is, eh!?” she bellowed on. “Insulting me for the entire of the Isles to see? Comparing me to a dog in heat!?”

 _Maybe, if you didn't change men as often as you changed your clothes..._ Waverly thought amusedly. She would never say it aloud.

“Perhaps, it was one of you’re disgruntled trysts?” she said instead. “Lord Shaw? That manager at The Abbey? Or maybe, your stalker Lord Brisby? Lately, it seems you seem to finally be keeping the majority of your affairs at its proper station.”

Waverly observed her sister more closely. Esma was wearing a new, white gold bracelet that was studded with diamond pavé and sapphires.

“I’m sure _**that**_ didn’t come out of our pocket book,” Waverly said. “Another present your new beau?”

“What are you implying?” Esma replied, with a suspicious brow. “And he's not exactly new anymore...”

“I’m only talking out of my head. But there’s no need to worry. The staff’s already cleaned it up.”

“Ha! Right after over a hundred people saw it! I’ll bet it’s the talk of the halls by now!”

 _They already know of you, you silly woman,_ Waverly mourned. Again, she wouldn’t dare say a word.

“I’d love to get my hands on the rapscallion!” Esma declared. “I’ll shall show him how I can _really_ handle a man!”

She downed the second glass, tilting her head back in a domineering glory, and poured herself another.

“Are you trying to get drunk, sister dear?”

“Of course I am! Anyone would want to get drunk after that!”

Waverly sighed and finished chiseling away at her last nail. She got up from the couch and left the living room. Esma slowly savored the third glass. After a while, Waverly returned, wearing her heels and a large handbag.

“Where are you going all of the sudden?” Esma asked, completely agog.

“I’m not interested in seeing you turn into a sloppy lush,” Waverly declared. “I’ve seen it many times before. So, I’ll be heading to my spa appointment for a body flush.”

Ignoring whatever disapproving or offended glare Esma might’ve given her, she walked briskly out of their suite. Her loose clothes swayed with every step.

 

00000

 

Mr. Campbell turned from his bookshelf as he heard the knock on his office door. He sneered, already knowing whom it was, and beckoned the person to enter. When Mr. Burrows stepped into his office, Campbell was adjusting the books on his shelf, which had previously been rearranged in the wrong order.

“Ah, Mr. Burrows,” he greeted with a brief glance. “You’ve come for the financial statements, have you?”

“Yes,” Burrows replied. “Where…”

“Sitting on my desk in that binder.”

Burrows saw it, a dark leather binder. The papers were neatly sorted, with holes punched perfectly. Just the way he preferred it.

“Thank you,” he replied, picking it up. As he turned to leave, Campbell suddenly called him back.

“It's a curious development, isn't it?” he asked. “Sending Mr. Attano to be one of _his_ observers. I would've expected someone less visible.”

“Who knows The Outsider's way of thinking,” replied Burrows.

“I hear he walked away from quite the settlement. If that's the case, then The Outsider must've given him one hell of a counter-offer. Probably helped that he had some obvious bad blood with his brother.”

Burrows grunted nonchalantly and reached for the door. “It's only natural. After all, he's nothing but the late Salazar's bastard son. Well, I've no time for gossip. I'll see you during...”

“But you're familiar with having to deal with illegitimate children. Aren't you Mr. Burrows? It must be a very hard thing to smooth things over. Handing out the money. Constant coverups. Especially when a wife and child are involved.”

Campbell watched as his superior went rigid. Burrows slowly looked back with a cold expression, briefly studying his face.

“But unlike most people,” Campbell continued, “Mr. Salazar took a different approach his mistake. He actually dared to acknowledge the boy's existence. Paid for his eduction all the way to the end. Even took him in when the _other woman_ died. It's actually rather touching. Now, if only a certain someone was able to follow his example...”

Burrows loomed over the desk. His eyes narrowed into slits.

“What are you getting at, Thaddeus?”

Campbell chuckled. “Ah, Hiram. I'm only ruffling your feathers. Goodness. You look like you've smelled a rotten odor.”

“Perhaps I have,” Burrows began, with a tight smile. “But I'm glad, Thaddeus. After all, I turn a blind to your going-ons in this hotel, since you're of use to me. But let me warn you: I already know exactly how to take care a damned blackmailer.” He straightened back up, folding his hands behind his back. “And don't think for a moment that wouldn't take care of you.”

The amusement fled from Campbell’s face, and he grimly stared back.

“Don't worry,” he replied. “I get it.”

“Good.” Ms. Kaldwin’s proud assistant left the manager’s office without a sparing another word. He headed towards his own office, taking many turns throughout the winding halls. He puffed air through his nose and tucked the binder deeper into his arm.

Soon, he saw the entrance of his office, a beautiful mahogany door with the letter’s of his title etched on a bronze plate. He smiled with dreamlike euphoria glowing from his face.

But as he reached his door and turned the knob, he heard a voice giggling in the distance. He turned abruptly, recognizing it, and gaped with fear. Emily’s retreating form, dressed in lovely rose pink, was growing smaller and smaller down the other end of the hall, until she disappeared around a corner. Burrows quickly opened the door, rushed inside, and stopped dead.

And he screamed, and screamed, and screamed.

Slamming the door behind him, he bellowed, “That little witch!”

The books on the shelves were in the wrong order; Burrows always ordered it by size. Some books were thrown onto the floor. The painting in the corner of his room was askew. The time on his clock was wrong. His pens and pencils were dumped unceremoniously over the surface of his desk. The drawers of his desk were left wide open. And a crowning jewel, his swivel chair was in the middle of the floor, lying on its side.

Witch, indeed. Burrows had only been gone for five minutes. Only five minutes. And Emily had dished out enough damage that a cleaning lady would balk at.

 

00000

 

Jessamine had just finished a meeting with her financial advisors. Wearing a cream white skirt suit and a matching hat, she strode through its lobby, brimming with confidence.

Her cell phone buzzed, and she answered the call with a bright smirk on her face.

“Yes, Mr. Burrows…” she greeted.

Suddenly, a flurry of words passed through the receiver and into her ears. Her eyes flashed wide. She shut her eyes tight with an exasperated groan.

 

00000

 

Meanwhile, Corvo silently pondered why Emily was hiding behind him in the elevator. Though she hadn’t said a word, he knew that she had been up to no good. He could see it in her shrinking frame. How bad of a thing she did or what she had done… he couldn’t imagine what.

“Who are you hiding from?” Corvo demanded.

“Nobody.” Emily maintained a poker face.

He glared incredulously. “Miss Emily… one must own up and take responsibility for the things they do.”

“But Mr. Burrows is a meanie!” she protested. “He calls me names behind Mummy’s back… when he thinks I don’t hear him!”

“Who is this Burrows fellow that you keep speaking of?” he asked.

The elevator boy turned suddenly from the buttons. “Ms. Kaldwin’s right hand man, sir.”

Corvo gave him a thankful nod. “I see.”

Emily pushed out her lips and scowled.

“Why not...” Corvo suggested, “…instead of picking on Mr. Burrows, why don’t you tell your mother on him. That’ll be effective.”

“Mummy can’t fire him!” Emily wailed, raising her fists. “He’s got tenure!”

Corvo lightly parted his lips, completely taken aback. “Do you even know what that means?”

“I don’t… but that’s what all the adults say.”

The elevator boy suppressed a wheezing laugh.

The elevator stopped and opened for another passenger. As soon as the doors parted, Waverly Boyle looked inside and froze upon seeing Corvo’s face. Corvo was equally startled to see her face, but not very surprised.

“Mr. Attano,” Waverly said.

“Miss Waverly,” he replied.

She stepped inside, her loose red clothes fluttering about her, and took her place at his side. The doors shut, and there was a brief pause. Emily eyed her curiously, and Waverly glanced back with a polite smile.

“Hmmm, it was actually quite funny,” she declared, without saying hello. “When I first realized that you were here of all places. Didn’t you go broke after ditching that awful brother of yours?”

“If I were broke,” Corvo replied, “then I wouldn’t be here.”

“You couldn’t pick a more inconspicuous place to hide? After that incident, the press’ll be all over you when they figure out where you are. If they _**haven’t**_ figured it out, that is. Everyone wants to know what kind of drugs you were on when you went AWOL.”

“Maybe, I’m living on the wild side for a change,” Corvo challenged.

The conversation was lost on Emily’s ears. The elevator boy remained silent.

“You being here doesn’t have anything to do with that Outsider fellow?” Waverly mused. “The man who bought your daddy’s company…?”

“If that was true, would I tell you?” Corvo asked with a slight grin.

She chuckled in response. Emily observed the situation with childish displeasure.

“Good answer. Not like it has anything to do with me. It’s not as if I presume to be your confidante. Still, we should get together some time. After your escapade ends… since it probably hasn’t. You, me, and my sisters. We like doing quartets with you.”

“As long as Esma understands that I’m not interested in becoming her next…”

Corvo glanced down at Emily with parental concern. “…friend.”

“She’s actually been going steady,” Waverly revealed. “The same man for the past two months! She might finally be calming down.”

“Does she have lots of friends?” asked Emily.

Waverly smiled blankly. “She's had quite a few!”

Corvo cleared his throat.

A cell phone made a beeping sound, signaling an incoming text. The awkwardness was swiftly and thankfully dispelled, and he checked it right away. His eyes went wide, but he remained calm; it was from The Outsider. He opened the message and read it quietly.

As he read the contents, Corvo’s eyebrows were raised, and his jaw went slack.

“He must be joking!” he whispered sharply.

“Something wrong?” Waverly teased.

Corvo swiftly closed the phone and put it back in his pocket.

“Nothing!” he quickly replied. “Nothing at all.”

 

00000

 

This time, Emily had the gumption to follow him to his suite. Not that Corvo protested, for he was too preoccupied by his situation to notice her… until they were both standing at his door.

“Can I come and hide in your place?” Emily begged.

“You can’t do that, Miss Emily,” he replied. “I’m a stranger.”

She cocked her head, gathering her brow. “You’re not strange.”

 _God bless this child,_ he thought.

“I know that…” he tried to reason with her. “But your mother and don’t even know each other. She wouldn’t approve.”

“If you get to know Mummy,” she asked eagerly, “can I do it then?”

He stared deeply at her face, a cute and vivacious version of her mother’s comely face. He smirked eagerly, letting himself have a few moments of solace.

“Maybe,” he answered simply.

It was assurance enough. Emily waved with a cheery goodbye and skipped off through the hall, in the opposite direction from where they came from.

Left alone and defenseless, Corvo sighed wearily and trudged into his suite. He marched straight up to the phone in his living room and glared at it. He sighed again, and with cell in hand, he called the only one who could possibly advise him.

“Ah, hello Corvo!” She answered him before he could utter a word. “I take it you got a text as well.”

“He’s... he's actually expecting us to do this, isn’t he?”

“I’ve already done mine,” Vera drawled lazily. “He’s gotten me to do it before. It’s quite fun…”

For some reason, a laugh escaped his throat. “The front desk is going to think that I’ve gone mad!”

Vera answered with a hearty chuckle. “I know. Splendid, isn’t it? Piero was more intimidated than you, though…”

Corvo banged his fist against his forehead. Vera heard his groan through the receiver.

“I can't believe I have the balls to even consider this,” he muttered.

“Is this coming from the same man,” she replied, “who yanked a stinking cigar out of the mouth of **Daud Salazar**... before throwing it out a car window? And after that… didn't you give him a black eye before exiting the vehicle?”

“Well that's different, and—wait. How did you know that?”

Vera chuckled and didn't answer.

“Listen…” she said, in a more understanding tone, “if you want my advice, here it is. You know of that Tyvian vodka you have in your cupboard?”

“Yes?” he replied.

“I suggest you make yourself a nice little fruit cocktail… put it all away like I know you can… pick up that phone… dial the front desk… and just do it!”

Corvo swallowed. “I…I’ll try that.”

“Good,” Vera said firmly. “We can talk about it as soon as you’re done. At the Golden Cat?”

“Sure…”

“Wonderful. See you then.”

She hung up, and Corvo was on his own again. Mindfully taking up her suggestion, he got himself a tumbler in the kitchen, and poured it half-full with his Tyvian vodka. He filled the rest with grapefruit juice. With a heavy gusto, he let his head fall back and chugged the entire concoction in one sitting. The liquor struck him full on, going straight up his nose, and after the effects quickly dissipated, he felt… much better.

After a gasp of air, he sat the glass in the sink, carried the bottle of vodka with him, and returned to the living room. He sat the bottle on his coffee table and stood before the phone once more. The front desk button was staring him in the face.

With cell phone in hand, he looked at the text, reading over it again and again, wondering why he wasn't trying to refuse. Surely, if he begged...

“N-nothing for it…” he said quietly, and he picked up the phone and called the front desk.

“Hello, Mr. Attano,” a man replied. “What may I do for you?”

Corvo cleared his throat and adopted a forceful yet nondescript tone. “Good afternoon, sir. Listen, there are a few things in my suite that are not to my liking.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” came the answer. “What may we do to solve that?”

“Do you have a piece of paper on hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

Corvo sucked in as much air as he could and vomited it all out.

“I don’t like the color scheme at all!” he claimed, scrolling down on The Outsider’s text. “It bothers me, and I want it changed right away. I’d like… I want this entire suite to be decorated in purple! Several shades of purple! Especially amethyst, plum, eggplant, orchid purples. And this includes my bed sheets (make sure they’re light purple), my bed decorations, my living room and bedroom curtains, and my shower curtains…”

“Wha!?” the man squeaked. “Well… sure, Mr. Attano. We’ll see what we can do…”

“And… not only that… I want purple roses all over the place. On my dining room. On my coffee table. In my hall. In my bedroom. And WHEREVER else you can fit a vase.”

The man coughed at the front desk. Corvo waited anxiously for a response.

“That’s not a problem…”

“Additionally…” he interrupted, “I have a few needs. I would like the entire collection of the _Medieval History of the Isles: Special Edition_ , a large box of Morley shortbread cookies…as large as you can find…two pounds of bittersweet, Tyvian cooking chocolate, a large bottle of Serkonian brandy… the same brand that’s served at the Hound Pits…” He stopped for a moment, bracing himself for the last 'item', “…and a sleek, black cat from the local pet store. One that doesn't shed much.”

“V-very… well, Mr. Attano,” the man answered faithfully. “We…”

“And…” Corvo replied, as it grew even harder to speak, “Tomorrow morning, at exactly eight o’clock sharp, I want a tradition Morley breakfast of eggs—sunny side up—link sausages, whole grain toast, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms, a bowl of oatmeal, and a pot of fresh Morley Breakfast tea. And I want the server to have a red rose betwixt **her** lips.”

The poor unfortunate behind the desk made a sound that as if he were choking. Corvo wanted to cry along with him.

“Do you have that all down?” he asked congenially.

“That was… a black cat, right?” the man asked, trying to collect himself. “And shades of amethyst, eggplant, plum, and orchid?”

“Yes. And as for all those things, excluding tomorrow’s breakfast… I want it all done by midnight tonight. No later than that. Do I make myself clear?

“C-certainly, Mr. Attano. We’ll… we’ll get to it right away…”

“That’s great to hear. Thank you very much. Goodbye.”

Corvo slowly hung up, feeling sorry for the staff. He shivered, feeling strangely energetic, and made himself sit on the couch. He imagined his suite completely decked out in hideous purple.

At the end of it all, he wasn’t certain what he thought was the more shocking fact: the action that he had been instructed to execute, the realization that he had actually gone through with it, or the very notion that the hotel would have the willing capacity to do such a thing on short notice… even if it was _that kind of hotel_.

He reached over the coffee table, wrapped his fingers around the vodka, and began to empty the contents straight from the bottle. It was a small bottle, and there wasn’t much left anyway.

 _And why so much purple!?_ he groused.

As it all sunk in, a snicker escaped from his throat. It started out slow, growing increasingly louder, until he was laughing out loud. Laughing at bittersweet cooking chocolate, medieval history, and black cats. Laughing at the absurdity of it all. He then, he couldn't stop laughing at all.

And he'd always wanted a cat.

Vera would understand if he kept her waiting for a little while.

 

 


	6. I don't see how he could do anything worse...

 

On the following morning, as soon as breakfast was finished and teeth were brushed, Jessamine marched Emily all the way to Hiram Burrows’ office. Emily, all dressed in white, shrank under her mother’s piercing gaze and didn’t say a word.

“That’s the last time you will **ever** do that again!” Jessamine warned. “I know it’s ridiculous… but Mr. Burrows is a man that is sensitive to order. It upsets him **greatly** when something is out of place. You will not toy with that weakness again, is that clear?”

Emily nodded gloomily. Jessamine gave her an icy glare, and she winced.

“Yes, Mum!” she squeaked.

“And for the rest of the month,” she added sharply, “you will not leave the suite without Callista accompanying you!”

Emily groaned.“Yes, Mum.”

They came to the door of his office, and Jessamine knocked quietly, just enough to be heard. Burrows beckoned them to enter, and she took Emily by the hand, pulling her inside.

The office had already been tidied up from its latest misadventure. The books had been arranged in glorious order. The chair was back in place. The desk was cleared. The pencils were back in their holder. The painting was aligned in the correct position. The clock’s time was correct. Burrows closed his laptop and folded his hands on top of it.

“Yes, Ms. Kaldwin?” he asked, with a triumphant glint in his eye.

Emily grimaced, lightly showing her teeth. Jessamine put her hands on her daughter’s shoulder and established a firm grip.

“Emily has something that she would like to say,” she declared with a wide, fixed smile.

Both of the adults bored their eyes into the little girl. Emily sighed and said the words, as if she were mechanically reading from a script.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Burrows,” she uttered. “I’m sorry that I snuck into your office and messed around with things. It won’t happen again.”

“Thank you, dear child,” he replied with a wide grin. “I’m sure that it won’t.”

Jessamine smiled in appeasement and patted Emily on the head. Mr. Burrows' amusement then disappeared, and he became serious.

“However,” he began, “there's also something... I would like to discuss with you.”

Jessamine frowned. “Oh?”

He gestured towards the chairs in front of his desk. The two ladies took the offer thankfully.

“Is something wrong?” inquired Jessamine.

“Well, I’m not sure that ‘wrong’ is the correct word for it,” Burrows replied. “But it is… a very queer thing.”

“Queer?” she asked.

Her assistant opened one of the drawers of his desk and pulled out several sheets of paper, all gathered in a paper clip. Jessamine raised a curious eyebrow and pursed her lips.

“It’s about that Mr. Attano fellow,” Burrows said, “ that man—that pianist—who recently checked in as a resident. The… Outsider’s representative.”

She frowned lightly, the creases forming between her eyes, but she nodded. “Yes. What of him?”

Burrows sighed wearily, his wrinkles becoming more and more pronounced.

“He…” he began hesitantly. “Yesterday, in the early afternoon, he called up the front desk and dished out a whole slew of demands! And many of them downright ridiculous!”

“Were they… _unreasonable_ demands?” Jessamine questioned.

“Unreasonable, if you count the rules of common sense!” Burrows responded in horror. “He made the staff change the entire color scheme of his suite. Into purple. Everything into bloody purple! And he demanded that it be finished by midnight!”

“Purple?” she scoffed, wrinkling her nose. “Was the staff able to accomplish it?”

“ _Barely_ ,” he admitted shamefully. “We even had to change out some of the furniture… and barely because… he issued several errands for the valets to do. Buying cooking chocolates, books, all sorts of items… he even asked the staff to buy… a cat!

Emily covered her mouth and snickered. Jessamine parted her lips in shock.

“We managed to find a Tyvian breed,” he muttered quietly.

“Well…” she replied, “that is quite unusual… but we’ve had something like that before…”

“He’s not the only one who did this.”

Jessamine’s eyes widened, and she leaned back in her chair. “What…?”

“All on the same day! ” Burrows announced. “It’s a conspiracy, I tell you! Unless this is someone's idea of a practical joke. And even then, I don’t find it _remotely_ funny!”

“Who else…?” she asked.

He flipped through the pages in his hands, his eyes darting quickly through the information. His face brightened at a certain point, and he roughly folded the previous pages back, causing a light, whipping sound.

“The Lady Moray…” he read. “Your couturier, I believe. She called the front desk as well and ordered the staff to change the color scheme of her suite… to orange. She also ordered two parrots with a silver cage and stand; several teas—sixty-four ounces each—which included Pandyssian Rooibos and Serkonian Apple, to name a few; the entire collection of the Prince of Tyvia novels; thirty strawberries dipped in Tyvian chocolate; and… a traditional Serkonian breakfast served by a man wearing a Pandyssian jasmine wreath over his head…”

Emily descended into a fit of giggles and curled up in a ball. Jessamine patted her on the back, trying to get her to calm down. Burrows grunted softly and flipped through the pages again.

“And then there’s this… Mr. Joplin,” he continued. “Whoever _that_ is. He had his room decked out in green. He also asked for five twelve-ounce packages of imported sausages, a bottle of Chianti, and bulldog—all had to be Serkonian; five black, Vera Moray men’s suits; twelve boxes of assorted Tyvian chocolates, and none of the chocolates could have nuts; books on Anton Sokolov’s work… the list goes on!”

“Gracious…” Jessamine mumurred. “Well, I **do** know that Mr. Attano and Lady Moray are acquainted. But still…”

“I know that this man is supposed to be a representative… and it’s obvious that Lady Moray is involved, but this? This is going too far! Do you have any idea how many staff members… how many hours had to be put into this!? And what if they end up doing it again?”

“But were you able to accomplish everything they asked for?”

Mr. Burrows stopped, giving her a perplexed look. Jessamine tilted her head, waiting for an answer.

“Um…yes,” he answered. “We did absolutely everything, but that’s…”

“Then, the staff has done an excellent job!” she declared. “I’ll write a note of gratitude.”

“Yes… but what about this troublesome trio…”

“If they give out any other demands… make sure that the staff follows through with our usual excellence.”

Burrows gaped in shock. Jessamine pinched her chin, her mind going deeply into serene thought. She ignored his babbling, incoherent protests.

“This is a wonderful idea…” Jessamine whispered to herself. “When a guest books a room, we can offer them an optional color scheme! We’d have to narrow it down to certain choices to avoid strain on the staff, but… what an idea! Purple, green, orange, black and white, black or white…”

“M-ms. Kaldwin…!” Burrows interrupted.

Jessamine only gave him a smile and stood up.

“Keep up the good work,” she commanded. “And just do what they say. This shouldn’t last for very long anyway. I’ll you see later at the luncheon.”

Jessamine gave him a polite smile and put the papers on the desk. Emily slid out of the chair and sauntered towards the door. She followed her and opened it.

“M-m-ms…”

“And Mr. Burrows?”

He slumped his shoulders in defeat. “Yes, Ms. Kaldwin?”

“Don’t tell me about a guest’s business ever again. It’s positively nosy.”

The two ladies slipped out and left the manager quite alone. He hissed through his teeth and threw the papers onto the floor.

“Oh, bloody hell!”

00000

“So,” Emily asked, as they walked out into the lobby, “are Corvo and Granny Rags really spies?”

Jessamine shook her head with great doubt. “No… more like the loudest and most blatant decoys I’ve ever seen in my entire life.” 

“What’s a decoy?”

  
  


00000

  
  


A week passed Corvo by in a whirlwind… and he still hadn’t gotten over the purple.

As soon as he opened his eyes in the morning or turned on a lamp in the living room, he thought he was about to drown in a sea of amethyst and eggplant. Whether that was awful or simply hysterical, he still couldn't tell. The only means of distraction were his precious piano… or simply fleeing from the suite.

For the most part, since the fiasco, The Outsider hardly texted him a word. Hardly, except when he received a message to order the oddest meals he had ever read being described. Just that morning, he had been forced to order a cheese onion soup, with sliced artisan bread, pickled vegetables—Morley style—and Bloody Mary… for breakfast.”

The Outsider obviously had no shame.

Once again, after finishing his…breakfast, Corvo had left the room and called his chauffeur. He then rode deep into the city of Dunwall, towards a quiet shopping area, a rather quirky distract, where he found a music shop that he had looked up in a phone book. He needed to order another set of personalized music sheets for his composing, and he wanted to buy a fresh, new songbook.

The store was dimly lit but bright enough to examine the merchandise. A middle-aged woman stood behind the counter, filing her nails. The walls were decked with the framed faces of contemporary musicians. He didn’t look to see if his face was among them, and he rather hoped that it wasn’t.

In the end, he found three neoclassical songbooks and a hard-to-find biography of his childhood hero. He eagerly walked up to the cashier to buy them and to make an order on the music sheets. The woman looked up, saw his face, and she smiled in excitement.

“Why hello there, sir!” she greeted. “We get lots of known faces around here, but I’ve never seen **you** around here, Mr. Attano!”

Naturally, there was no escaping it.

  
  


00000

 

The day continued to go by.

At a quarter to noon, Esma crept out of the suite she shared with her sisters and traipsed through the halls. She was on her way to meet Hiram Burrows for a private meal. And after that, she was going shopping.

“There’s nothing like a fancy lunch in the afternoon,” Esma mused almost drunkenly.

She wore all cream white, her shoes were black at the toes, and she brandished a beautiful, matching, Vera Moray purse. She proudly tossed her curled hair, humming a tune through curled, rose painted lips, and swayed her hips with deliberate exaggeration.  Her large sunglasses and her pretty, white hat were her crowning jewel.

Esma glanced at her watch, making sure that she wasn’t late. This particular man valued punctuality to a fanatical degree.

“Esma!” a man called out.

She looked up, startled by the sudden voice. A man, well-dressed but with an air of unsavory shabbiness, stomped towards her in a desperate fury. She cursed under her breath, turned on her heels, and took off like a shot. She was marvelously good at running in her six-inch heels.

“Esma!” he wailed.

Esma pumped her arms, her purse swinging back and forth, and turned a corner to reach the other side of the floor. She grinned lightly. If her luck held out, she hoped, she’d escape him in another elevator. Having to duck and dodge former suitors wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience, but she enjoyed it all the same. It gave a boost to her ego—running into men who just couldn't stand to let her go.

As she neared the next elevator, her heart raced. She ran up to its doors and almost stubbed her finger into the “down” button. She fiddled her thumbs nervously, hearing his running footsteps in the distance. The elevator door chimed and opened, and she heard him call her name.

Upon seeing his face again, Esma gave him a scowl.

“Good day, Lord Brisby,” she mocked. “And may we never see each other again!”

“Esma!” he cried. “Wait! There's something I need to—”

She hopped inside and commanded the elevator girl to close it fast. As soon as the doors slid closed, she leaned against the back wall and exhaled loudly.

“Shall I inform security, Miss Esma?” the girl asked.

“Yes, that would be a good idea.”

  
  


00000

  
  


In the midst of a slowly thinning traffic, Corvo quietly finished the best fish and chips that Dunwall had to offer. It was an unexpected treat. Somehow, never having tasted it before and eating it from a bag in the back of a car made it all the more delicious… either that, or it had made the car ride more tolerable.

The car reached the front of the hotel and pulled up. He spotted Piero waiting anxiously on the sidewalk. The chauffeur quickly hopped out of the driver’s seat and circled the back of the car. Piero was already rushing towards the passenger door when the chauffeur opened it.

Corvo climbed out and gave Piero a scathing look. “Your fish and chips are sitting on the floor.”

“Thank you,” Piero sang, and he moved past Corvo to get into the car.

“You know, if you hadn’t asked me to bring you lunch, I wouldn’t have been caught in this rush hour. And **you** wouldn’t be running late.”

“Still not used to Dunwall yet, eh?”

“I think that will take time.”

Corvo quietly walked off, and the car door was shut. There wasn’t much of a need to say goodbye. As he entered the hotel, he wondered what Piero’s students would think if they discovered that their professor was a recent practitioner of graffiti. Let alone his fellow colleagues…

 

00000

 

Emily and Jessamine had gone to tea.

Callista, dressed in her usual, matronly best, entered the higher faculty halls in a barely contained fury. The entire area was almost as empty as a tomb; most of the occupants would be at a late lunch at this time. And she knew that the timing of her being here was well planned.

But she wasn’t intimidated. Not in the least.

Finally, Callista walked up to the door of Campbell’s office and knocked loudly against the door. Campbell welcomed her with a pleasant voice, and she slipped inside.

“Ah, Miss Curnow,” Campbell greeted her politely. “I’m glad you could come. You sure you wouldn't like a drink this time?”

“Would you mind keeping this brief again?” Callista replied sharply. “Emily is at the Golden Cat with her mother, and we’ll being shopping afterwards. I need to prepare.”

The manager of the Pandyssia briefly narrowed his eyes but kept a pleasant smile. Callista folded her arms and kept her head held high.

“I only bothered to come here,” she continued, “because you had the indecency to mention my uncle again over the phone. You have a lot of nerve, Mr. Campbell, and I don't know what you're game is. But we're NOT bending for you.”

Campbell closed his and chuckled in amusement. “Indecency? Nerve? Me? You're the one who was disobedient. Didn't I tell you to just squirm?”

Callista smirked. “Funny. I don't recall agreeing to that.”

“Are you so convinced that a few smart words can save your hide?”

Callista stared him down without a reply. He wasn’t deterred.

“Even more idiotic,” he went on, leaning comfortably against his desk, “haven’t you ever stopped to recognize that you’re not the only one affected by this. After all, it was Geoff that got you work inside of this hotel. Just think of how his reputation will suffer if…”

Callista snickered at him. She stood akimbo before him and burst out laughing. Campbell backed off, startled.

“You’re the idiot!” she cried. “Do you honestly think —even for a minute—that I’m afraid of you? Is it because you’ve gotten away with this _so many_ times? If you really know about my parents, then you're crazy if you think we'll be pushovers over something like this.”

Campbell snorted at her, his face turning red. “Ah, you have more pluck than I originally thought possible.”

He slowly walked towards her, and her instincts made her flinch. As soon as he came close enough, standing directly in front of her, his hand shot out and took a firm grasp on her hair bun. Callista hissed at the pain. His polite façade fell away.

“You dirty little delinquent!” He spat his words into her face. “Wouldn't be so high and mighty if everyone knew of your days spent in juvenile centers! You and your uncle—you’ve got nothing! You have you no outs, no proof, and you think a little sass can brush me off?”

Callista, nevertheless, didn’t give him even a hint of terror. Nor did she attempt to pry his hands away. Her expression became strangely vacant.

“You’re actually quite right, you know,” she replied. “Words can't save anybody. But no one should no that better than _someone like me_.”

She balled her fist and gave Campbell a powerful jab in the gut. He went down grunting and wheezing and fell at her feet. Her bun was ruined, so she irritably picked out the pins that held it up, and shook out her hair.

“Are you so busy trying to blackmail me,” she mocked, “that you’ve completely forgotten what you’re blackmailing me for? You must be going absolutely senile, you old wanker!”

Campbell groaned and struggled feebly to get up. Callista raised her leg and stomped on his back, bringing him back face first into the floor. Her heel dug into him.

“So, what do you want from my Uncle?” she demanded. “Come on; tell me! What the hell do you even want!?”

He heaved but didn't answer. She pushed her heel deeper, and he groaned in pain. She hissed through her teeth and waited. He still wouldn't answer. And she wasn't sure she even cared.

“Don’t you dare look down on me,” she snarled. “I was a dirty little scamp, Sir. No use denying that. But you? You're a hopeless cause!” She dug her heel into him again, and he coughed. “You’re a bully!” She brought her foot down again. “A thug!” And again. “And just as that little message on the lobby wall said, you’re nothing but a bloody, “arm-twisting pig”! You think that you have power to dominate everyone who works in this hotel. Everyone you can find dirt on. Well, that's not happening anymore.”

Callista removed her foot from his back and headed towards the door. She turned the knob but turned back to look at him. He attempted to get to his feet again, but only managed to get to his knees. She noticed blood trickling from his nose.

“In the next few days,” she muttered, “Everyone’s going to know the truth about you. Everyone. Until then, you’re going to have to make up quite a tale for those bruises… you slimy git!”

She opened the door, trudged outside, and slammed it in her wake.

  
  


00000 

  
  


At about the same time, Madame Prudence watched as the customers, including Jessamine and Emily, enjoyed afternoon tea inside the Golden Cat. She cast a nasty glare at the little girl, all dressed in cream yellow, and turned up her nose.

 _What an obnoxious little brat!_ she groused. _She only acts like an angel in front of her mother!_

The Golden Cat, the dainty glory of the Hotel Pandyssia, was a beautiful establishment, all dressed up in crimson red, gold, and traces of mahogany motifs. The area was fashioned as a replica of some historical, Tyvian palace banquet hall; it reached at least three floors in tiers, and there was a winding staircase that led to all of them. Along the wall of the staircase, there were vintage framed photographs—all of them various shapes—of many subjects. Emily and Jessamine were on the top floor of the teahouse.

Jessamine, despite herself, had a notorious sweet tooth. It was notoriously exposed in what she chose to accompany her tea with: a large piece of marble cheesecake, drizzled with chocolate syrup, and decorated with chocolate shavings. Her milk tea with three lumps of sugar topped the whole thing off. Emily was content with a fruit tart.

After a while, halfway into her cake, Jessamine couldn’t help but notice that her daughter seemed a bit glum. She wasn’t eating her favorite treat with her usual relish.

“Emily,” Jessamine said worriedly, “is something wrong?”

Emily took a small nibbled without looking her mother in the eye.

“Hmm, nothing…” she replied.

Jessamine sighed lightly and took a sip from her cup. “If this is about my trip to Tyvia… you needn’t fuss. There’s nothing for you on a snowy mountainside.”

Emily picked up her teacup as well but took time to study the beautiful, blue designs on its body. The aroma of the tea barely managed to sooth her.

“But Callista and I can play in the snow,” she argued. “And sit by a fireplace and drink hot cocoa. And I could try borscht and Charlotte Tyvie.”

“I know a good Tyvian restaurant in the city,” Jessamine tried to placate her. “You can try it there…”

“I want to try the real stuff. While I’m there. And I’ve never played in snow before. And  I’ve never seen a mountain up close.”

There was a cold, awkward pause. Emily drank her tea, her nose hidden from view, and refused to look up at her mother.

“Emily,” she finally replied, “I’m only going up there for a week. And it might be too much of a strain for you. You are **not** going.”

Emily would not speak to her mother for the rest of the day.

 

00000

 

As the afternoon became evening, Corvo had managed to have a relatively uneventful day. Therefore, when he finally received a text from the Outsider, he merely wondered what had taken him so long. Following the instructions on the text, he changed into some exercise clothes, left his suite, and rode the elevator all the way to the top floor.

When he reached the floor, he found himself at a dark-themed lounge and observation deck. Vera was already there, dressed in a red set of exercise clothes, also of her own design. She was performing a few stretches. Corvo shrugged and followed her lead.

“What exactly are we about to do?” he asked her.

“Why are you asking so calmly?” Vera replied.

“I don’t see how he could do anything worse…” he said.

At this, she promptly laughed in his face before bending over to touch her toes.

“Dear, poor child,” she rejoined with a strained voice. “You haven’t seen _anything_ yet.”

A few minutes later, Piero arrived as clueless as Corvo was. By then, they were on the floor, so he joined them.

“What are we doing?” he asked. “A jazzercise?”

“No,” Vera answered. “We’re going to have a race.”

“A what?” Corvo responded.

While they continued to stretch, Cecelia entered the lounge. She held a silver tray in her hand, and sitting on top of it, there were three bottles of water, a digital clock that displayed seconds, and piece of paper.

“Hello again!” she sang. “I hope you’ve all had a pleasant stay so far.”

Cecelia presented the water bottles with a smile, and all three of them took one for themselves. It was courtesy of The Outsider after all.

“All right, then,” she murmured. The trio got to their feet and was all ears. She set the tray down on the bar counter and took up the clock and piece of paper. She cleared her throat and read aloud:

 

_Hello dear participants,_

_To make a long story short, you are all about to have a race._

_The rules are simple. The object of this game is to cross the finish line in thirty minutes or less. The starting point is this lounge, and the ending point is the lobby. There are three exit stairs available in this hotel, which you will use to make your way down. There is also a checkpoint on the twentieth floor at room 2012; please discard your water bottles in the wastebasket that will be available._

_Only one person is allowed per exit; you are_ _**NOT** _ _allowed to share._

_Potty breaks are permissible._

_The race starts automatically at half past six. After you reach the lobby, make sure to wait until the entire group has arrived before you leave._

_The winner of this race will most definitely get a prize. But I won’t tell you right now. It’s a secret._

_That is all._

 

_Farewell, Gypsies_

_And may the best man (or woman) win!_

_-The Outsider_

 

Corvo was shocked, completely speechless.

“Wait a minute,” Piero said nervously. “Isn’t this hotel forty floors high—from top to bottom?”

Cecelia grinned all teeth and wiggled her eyebrows and hips.

“Of course it is. And…”

She glanced down at the clock, watching the seconds.

“And it is now 6:29 and forty-eight seconds… ten… nine… eight… seven… six… five… four… three…two…”

Up until that moment, Corvo had merely thought that his “benefactor” was merely a wealthy trickster with a lot of time on his hands. But now, he discarded that idea entirely.

The Outsider… was completely insane.

 

 


	7. I decided to name her Harry

Corvo thanked God that he was in decent shape. But that didn’t take away from _**any**_ of the humiliation.

No sooner had gun been fired—so to speak—he scrambled out of the lounge in a daze. The trio then proceeded to fight tooth and nail to reach the nearest exit first. To both his and Piero’s dismay, Vera bested them both by several feet, and they begrudgingly went their separate ways to find the remaining two.

As soon as he entered an exit, he made up for the lost time, bounding over the waterfall of concrete steps. When he was satisfied with the progress he made, Corvo stopped and inhaled his entire water bottle. Shortly after, he reached the twentieth floor to discard it. _Someone_ had already dropped off their bottle and gone on their merry way.

At first, Corvo couldn’t understand why he was even making an effort! It wasn’t as if he wanted the silly prize that The Outsider promised. So then why, he thought to himself, would he force himself to race all the way down to the fortieth floor like his life depended on it? There was no reason…

…unless, there was the possibility of some sort of penalty for anyone who didn’t finish before the time limit. Maybe, in the back of his mind, **that** was the motivation.

By the time he reached the lobby, at twenty-six and a half minutes on the clock, Corvo had taken to pumping his arms and panting for breath. The patrons looked on with mystified disgust as he ran past in his exercise clothes. The fact that he had miraculously won first place wasn’t helping matters in the least little bit.

Corvo chose a less visible spot in the lobby to rest. As he leaned over, knees bent, to catch his breath, a small voice came to his attention.

“What are you doing?”

Corvo looked up, and Emily was standing in front of him with big, curious eyes. Callista was standing right behind her, wrinkling her nose and grasping the strap of her purse. His eyes widened in horror.

 _ &%$#!_ he mentally screamed.

Emily smiled and giggled at the unsightly display. Callista placed a scolding grip on her shoulders.

“Um… well, I…” he stumbled.

Vera arrived in the lobby at twenty-eight minutes on the clock. The health-conscious woman showed up in _slightly_ better shape—her breathing was harsh but paced, and she moved in rhythmic strides. She pouted childishly when she spotted Corvo with the two ladies in the corner but ran up to them anyway, accepting defeat.

“Congratulations, my dear boy!” Vera chirped breathily. “You won!”

“Yes, but what did I get?” Corvo grumbled.

“You guys were having… a _race_?” asked Callista.

“Of course!” she replied. “It’s good for the heart.”

 _Nice timing, Lady Moray,_ he mused.

With about twenty seconds left on the clock, Piero weakly entered the lobby like a gazelle barely escaped from the hunt. They could see his wheezing and coughing from far off. Emily leaned to the side and frowned as she watched. Callista parted her lips in surprise. Corvo and Vera exchanged ironic stares.

“Celebratory dinner at my place?” she offered.

“Celebrating what?” he scoffed.

“Survival.”

Corvo waved his hand in surrender. “Why not?”

“Ooooo!” Emily cooed. “Can I come?”

Corvo smiled and almost laughed, but Vera nodded congenially.

“You may come, dear child,” she allowed. “You’re always welcome in my home.”

Corvo gave her strange look. Vera leaned close to him and whispered in his ear.

“Ms. Kaldwin is another client of mine,” she explained.

“Ahhhhhh…” he replied with a nod.

By the time Piero could stand on his two feet again, Corvo was glad to leave. People were gawking at them.

 

00000

 

After a much needed clean-up—which included Piero climbing into his shower and huddling under cold water—the trio met up at Lady Moray’s suite. Emily arrived all prim and proper with a red velvet dress and lacy collar. Callista—by her charge’s insistence—had changed into a short-sleeved, tea rose dress.

Vera ordered a plate of hors d’oeuvres and insisted that Corvo mix the drinks, including a virgin cocktail for “the little lady”.

“You’re good at it!” she argued. “I don’t need room service for that when I have **you**.”

So, he conceded and whipped up a very safe mint julep. Emily was tickled pink when he presented it to her on a small, silver plate. Afterwards, he crushed some ice in a blender and fixed the rest of the drinks, now laced with bourbon and mint liquor. He briefly stopped as he listened to Vera leading a conversation, verbally musing over his past trials in college life.

“The poor boy received virtually no support… from _the Late Mr. Salazar_!” she declared in outrage. “All he wanted was to go to a music university and get away from that brother of his! Poor thing—he had to go to school by day, bartend by night, and write his music on the bus! If Corvo never had had to get that job, he would never have met that little tramp!”

Corvo chuckled. _Well,_ _ **I’m**_ _loved._

Callista stepped into the small kitchen, her heels clicking lightly, looking a bit out of sorts.

“Can I help you with anything?” she asked with a tight grin. It sounded more like a plea.

“If you carry out the drinks for me,” Corvo replied, “I’d be very happy.”

Outside, in the dining room, the table subject had been changed… to Emily’s current woes. Apparently, from what Corvo heard, she desperately wanted to go to some Tyvian mountainside.

Callista shook her head and skillfully balanced the drinks on a silver tray.

“Did you used to be a waitress?” Corvo asked.

She jumped slightly, threatening to spill the juleps. “Oh, I—yes, I was. I had to make extra money in college too. Didn’t want to live off my uncle forever…”

Callista forced out a laugh and strolled out of the kitchen, a light sway in her hips.

Only one drink remained—his glass—sitting on the counter. He tilted his head back and took a chug out of it. He needed some quick liquid fire after _that_ fiasco. He carried it in almost nonchalantly as he entered the living room to sit at the table. Emily continued grousing over her mother’s tyranny, while the adults smiled in amusement.

“I just want to go out and play in the snow,” Emily mumbled. “There’s never much snow in Dunwall. I want to make a snowman and drink Tyvian chocolate by the fireplace. And I want to draw the trees. But she just says no…”

“There’s the brakes,” Piero replied sympathetically. “I’m afraid that’s what it means to be a tiny tot.”

“Your mother is worried that you won’t take to the jetlag,” Callista said in a warning tone.

“She just thinks I’ll get bored…” she muttered.

Corvo sat down next to Callista and folded his hands on the table.

“Maybe,” he suggested gently, “your mother doesn’t want you to catch… mountain sickness.”

Emily tensed almost fearfully. “M-mountain sickness? What’s that?”

Corvo leaned back in his chair and smiled triumphantly.

“Oh, mountain sickness?” he replied. “That’s what often happens to ‘tiny tots’ when they try to go up a mountain. They get very sick to the stomach… they… have dizzy spells… they… have a hard time breathing… and their brains swell.”

Emily went pale, and grabbed her head. Callista leaned close to Corvo and whispered,

“Quick thinking.”

“I try,” he whispered back.

Emily sipped on her virgin julep, continuing to think for a moment. She sighed submissively, and her shoulders slumped.

“I guess…” she finally responded, “…I’ll just go when I’m older.”

About twenty minutes later, the banquet arrived.

 

00000

 

Needless to say, Emily wordlessly kissed her mother goodnight and went to bed in peace.

As soon as Jessamine retired for the night, Callista let down her hair and dressed in comfortable clothes. She turned off the lights, made sure that everything was in order for the night, and quietly left the penthouse. She rode the elevator down to some unassuming floor and walked up to the door of her uncle’s suite. He welcomed her with open arms and a hot mug of alcoholic cider.

Family was nice, she believed. Especially when she didn’t have much family to begin with.

They sat at the couch in silence, aimlessly watching a comedy sketch of Gristolian wit. Callista was balled up like a child, her knees against her chest, and she leaned against her uncle. Geoff eventually wrapped a protective arm around her and pulled her closer.

“Why?” Callista thought aloud.

“What?” Geoff asked, turning to her.

“Why would he do that?” she asked. “When we threatened to get the police involved, why did he suddenly try to go at me even harder?”

Geoff sighed and tiredly closed his eyes. “Animals don’t think straight when they’re angry.”

“But…”

“People are foolish. And when they’re hurt, when they’re in pain, when they’re angry, they tend to become even _**more**_ foolish. You should know that better than anyone else.”

Callista jerked her neck and scowled at him. After a while, she looked away and nodded assent. Geoff patted her on the head and smiled.

“How about we order a blueberry pie à la mode?” he asked. “We used to have those a lot.”

“This late at night?” she questioned.

“Hey… if Lady Moray can do it, why can’t we?”

Callista giggled and cuddled against him. “Okay, then. Let’s do that.”

 

00000

 

At almost two o’clock in the wee hours, Callista sleepily returned to her employer’s suite. When she stepped inside, she nearly stepped on an envelope that was sitting on the ground. She knelt down to pick it up.

“The Kaldwins” was written on the front, and the back was sealed with stamped wax.

“What on earth is this?”

She flipped the envelope over again and again and admired the calligraphic style of the lettering.

 

00000

 

Morning was pleasant for many who had the pleasure of waking in the Hotel Pandyssia.

Not so for Corvo Attano.

It had started while he was still sleeping. The sound of his ringing telephone had interrupted his pleasant dreams, and he had moodily answered the phone. The caller turned out to be a journalist from a magazine, begging him for an interview on the Salazar incident. Corvo had curtly rebuffed him and hung up the phone.

After he got dressed and received a text from The Outsider, asking him to order another strange breakfast, he received three calls about the same time. The first one was from a local newspaper, the second from a prominent newspaper, and the third from a law firm magazine. And they all requested for the same thing. Corvo turned them all down.

But, as soon as he started to finish off the last call, four more calls came through the lines. Corvo, to his dismay, was forced to fend them all off, only to have several more calls waiting for him, all begging for an interview or a quote. By the time he rejected the twenty-eighth caller—though, he was sure that several people called him more than once—Corvo vowed never to touch the phone. Ever.

By the time his breakfast came to the door, Corvo and his sleek, black cat were cowering in fear on the couch. The cat had climbed on his shoulders, its claws digging through the fabric of his thick sweater. The phone kept ringing and ringing and incessantly ringing. At one point, the cat hissed, showing its pointed fangs.

“I fully agree with you,” Corvo replied.

As he sipped on a Tyvian wine cocktail, he started to wonder if unplugging his phones would be wise. Unfortunately, the phones and the wires were positioned in such a way that he was reluctant to touch them.

 _I could always try,_ he thought boldly.

As he got up from his unusual breakfast and advanced towards the first phone in his sights, someone rang his doorbell and knocked desperately. The cat continued to cling to him. Corvo walked briskly towards the door and looked through the peephole. A man in a dark suit stood outside; there was a wire attached to his ear. Security?

Corvo cautiously opened the door ajar. “May I help you?”

“Are you Mr. Attano?” the man asked.

“Yes. And you are?”

“Martin. Teague Martin. I’m head of security. Please let me in. Quickly…”

Corvo opened the door wide, and Martin brushed past him, carrying a small case under his arm.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he replied, “but I’m going to have to disconnect all of your phones.”

“I was about to attempt that,” Corvo replied. “What’s going on?”

Martin dropped the case on the coffee table and opened it. He took out a few tools and carried them towards the phone in the living room.

“Uh…?”

“Our operators are swamped,” Martin replied. “Right now, there are dozens of callers trying to get to you. And we’ve had to send away five reporters. This is the only way. For your sake.”  
Corvo went gray. Martin examined him and the cat that was squirming on his shoulders. He shook his head and set to work.

 

00000

 

After breakfast, Corvo dragged himself out of his suite and headed towards the Golden Cat. It was time for the “meeting”. When he reached the popular teahouse, Vera and Piero were already waiting at a corner booth. Vera was fiddling through her jeweled clutch purse, while Piero looked like death warmed over (apparently, the previous day’s race had taken a heavy toll on him).

Corvo seated himself and buried his face in his hands. Vera rubbed his back.

“I tried to call you,” Piero joked, “but for some reason, I couldn’t reach you…”

Vera glared daggers and kicked Piero underneath the table. Her heel stabbed into his sore muscles, and he grunted in pain.

“Ah, don’t worry about it, dear,” she encouraged. “Things will settle down.”

“I don’t understand this!” he cried. “I’m not a celebrity… or some diva!”

“You annulled your marriage to **one**. That’s close enough in this day and age. And on top of that, you’re the man who singlehandedly changed SLF overnight… by walking out on his own half-brother. There are many businessmen and aristocrats who conduct business in Serkonos… and many of them are Salazar’s clients. Ms. Kaldwin _herself_ has ties there. That’s how _**big**_ a deal this is! Just accept and get used to it.”

Corvo nodded weakly. Vera took a deep breath and clapped her hands.

“Alright!” she announced. “Let’s review, shall we?”

Piero hissed, still recovering from some pain. Corvo grumbled incoherently.

“I ended up calling concierge this morning,” Vera admitted. “I was told to ‘innocently’ tell them that my priceless pavé diamond hairpins had gone missing after I had maid service.”

“And where are your hairpins?” Piero asked.

“Oh, I took _those_ to the jewelers to have their clasps fixed,” she simpered.

“That is not nice!” Corvo declared, raising his head.

Vera ignored his protests. “And what about you, Mr. Joplin?”

“Yesterday, I asked them to buy a raincoat and rain slippers,” Piero answered. “For my dog…”

Vera let out a throaty laugh. Corvo frowned in bewilderment.

“And what about you?” he asked Corvo.

“For breakfast this morning, I dined on a pizza Margarita with side orders of raw baby carrots and baked fries (cooked to a crisp), along with a Tyvian wine cocktail garnished with a slice of orange. And I asked for a jeweled collar for the cat.”

Vera smiled, cupping her cheeks. “Ah, did you name the pretty one yet?”

“I decided to name her Harry.”

She scowled upon the name and averted her eyes.

“If I had my way, you should’ve named it after your ex—no, former wife. But if you were you going to give her a masculine name, you should’ve named her ‘Daud’.”

Corvo’s nostrils flared in disgust. “Are you sick?”

The waitress came with a pot of tea and poppy seed scones. As she finished setting down the order, she left a folded piece of paper in front of Corvo. They didn’t bother asking questions as she left.

“I guess this is for me,” he thought aloud.

Corvo unfolded it and scanned the page. He sighed tiredly, and his entire being sank into his chair.

“What is it?” Vera asked.

“The Outsider is congratulating me for winning the race,” Corvo replied. “And he’s giving me my… ‘reward’.”

“And what did you win?” she prodded.

“Apparently… I’m the one who gets to host a soire in my suite. He’s already sent out the invitations too. The both of you have to come.”

Vera and Piero leaned over the table with great interest.

“A party!” she sighed in delight. “I could use a good one. When is it?”

Corvo sighed again and looked up from the page.

“Seven o’clock. **Tonight**.”

 

 


	8. Lovely party

Vera was happy to loan her phone.

With a deep breath and three shots of brandy, Corvo called the front desk and asked for catering. Vera was busy feeding her birds and making clicking noises with her tongue. When he was told that catering service had a twenty-four scheduling policy, he sighed and poured himself another shot.

“Could you at least rearrange my living room?” he asked hopefully. “I’ll need two more tables—small and round, please.”

“How are my little birdies?” Vera sang in the background.

“That’s great. Also, I need five twelve-bottle cases of Tyvian artisan water… five bottles of sparkling water and five bottles of champagne—the largest ones you can find…two jugs of orange juice, no pulp… and three bottles of Grenadine.”

Corvo listened as he tossed down the liquor. Vera closed the cage and blew the birds a kiss.

“Thank you very much,” he replied. “Good bye.”

He hung up and took a seat on Vera’s orange couch. She rummaged through her desk drawer and pulled out a take-out menu.

“At least the _drinks_ are taken care of,” he muttered. “But how am I am going to get snacks for thirty-three people?”

Vera sat next to him and handed him the menu. “This is a good bakery that can give catering service on a dime. Hors d’oeuvres, breads, cakes, sandwiches, pastas…”

Corvo perked up a little. “As long as The Outsider’s footing the bill.”

“Text and let him know first,” she instructed.

Corvo took out his cell and worked his fingers on the keys.

“I’ll order every expensive thing on the menu…” he declared in revenge.

“He’ll be expecting that,” she replied.

He sent the text and dropped his cell on the couch. “What a damned headache.”

“Come now…” Vera scolded. “This isn’t so hard.”

“That’s not it,” he argued. “I still can’t understand… what happened this morning. I mean—I was expecting to get hounded by the press, sooner or later… but I can’t figure out…”

“…Why so many of them came for you… _**all at once**_?” she finished. “On the same day?”

“I know; isn’t it strange?” he continued. “I knew the big time publishers might find me right away… but _**every**_ newspaper in Dunwall? Even cheap rag magazines? And why at the same time? How did they all find me at the exact… same time? Someone had to have fed them… but who?”

Vera chuckled and crossed her legs. “Who indeed?”

“Many of the guests know who I am, but everyone here is _**too**_ rich for that. And there’s no way an employee would have the means to inform so many people. And the management wouldn’t **dare** compromise my privacy. The only person with the power to pull this off would be The… Outsider…”

Corvo stopped and choked on his words. His eye began to twitch. Vera smirked.

“You already figured it out…” he realized. “Didn’t you?”

“I know his style,” she replied. “It was _**glaringly**_ obvious.”

He hung his head in defeat. “And you almost said ‘yes’ to this man, Lady Moray...”

Vera chortled and stood up. She grabbed the whisky and kindly presented it to him.

“Here,” she said. “Have some Tyvian courage!”

“What’s the point?” he grumbled. “I can’t get tight to save my life.”

Corvo ran his fingers through his hair and covered his eyes. “Speaking of my life, what on earth… has become of it!?”

Vera narrowed her eyes and almost shoved the bottle up his nose.

“You handed it over to The Outsider. Drink up, my dear.”

He drank straight from the bottle.

“Vera… why is he doing this me?” he asked weakly.

“Because you’re his new favorite,” she beamed.

“His… favorite…?”

“Why else would he make you decorate your suite in purple? He likes purple. And thanks to you… he was able to get his hands on SLF.”

Corvo wheezed in distress. If this was The Outsider’s idea of favor, he never wanted to see the man’s hostility.

 

00000

 

And so, the break-neck planning commenced. After making a hefty order from the bakery, Corvo went back to his suite with a half-empty whisky bottle.

When he neared his door, his very large neighbor from across the hall was stepping out. They met each other’s eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Attano,” he said with a smile.

“Hello, sir,” Corvo replied.

As he turned to enter his suite, his neighbor suddenly said, “Thanks for the invite. I’ll be sure to come.”

Corvo jerked his head in surprise. The man strolled down the hall without looking back.

 _But… I don’t even know your name…_ he thought.

He took another deep breath and calmed himself. The Outsider had said thirty-three guests, and he wasn’t acquainted with that many people in the Pandyssia. Why should he have expected anything different?

A few minutes later, the valet came with his groceries and stored them away. Thirty minutes later, a few handymen arrived with the extra tables and rearranged the living room. Later in the afternoon, two maids came with a bundle of black tablecloths. At that point, Corvo finally accepted that the party would become a reality.

“I can do this, I can do this” became his mantra.

At five o’clock, the catering service arrived, wearing black slacks and white blouses. They arranged the food with skillful ease and took over his kitchen. As the appointed time drew near, one of the caterers began mixing Mimosas…under Corvo’s specific instructions.

Meanwhile, he dressed up in a simple, navy blue suit.

Vera snuck in very early, wearing a violet-black cocktail dress and a string of large pearls. She came with a set of CDs and played one on the living room’s stereo without permission. The room was soon filled with classy jazz.

“Lovely party,” she teased.

Corvo snorted. Vera stuck out her tongue.

 

00000

 

Soon after, the first of the hotel guests rang the doorbell. Corvo peered through the peephole and stepped back in dismay. The Boyle sisters stood on the other side of the door—Waverly, Lydia…and **Esma**.

“You must be joking!” he hissed.

Nevertheless, he reluctantly opened the door.

“Well, hello there!” Esma sang, batting her lashes.

Lydia uttered a polite yet pithy greeting. Waverly gave him an incredulous look.

The three sisters filed into his hall, carrying their respective instruments. All of them were wearing matching dresses, but in different colors. Lydia was clad in white and held her violin close. Esma wore red and labored with her cello. Corvo offered her his help, but she politely refused him. Waverly stood mournfully in black and held her viola at her hip. She waited until her sisters had gone ahead.

“Why did you invite _Esma_?” she asked. “She’ll be on you like flies on dung!”

“I’m afraid… that wasn’t up to me,” Corvo replied helplessly. “And why did you bring your instruments?”

Waverly shrugged. “That’s what the invitation **told** us to do. Live music?”

 _Thanks for providing entertainment, Mr. Outsider,_ he thought.

Esma returned to the hall, already swaying with a mimosa in her hand. Corvo braced himself as she wrapped herself around his arm and frowned. She nuzzled her chest into him, and her bracelet poked him through his sleeves.

“You’ve been here all this time, and you never said a word!” she chided. “I missed you, Corvo…”

Corvo glared daggers. _I didn’t miss you._

Esma pouted and squeezed tighter. “Ahhh, why are you _always_ so cold to—!?”

“Darling,” Waverly interrupted. “Let’s make sure that there’s enough room to play. We want to make sure before we perform, don’t we?”

Esma sighed childishly and released him. “Fine, fine!”

She walked off and returned to the living room. Waverly followed her but turned to give Corvo a wink. He returned the favor in gratitude.

 

00000

 

By the time Piero made his appearance, most of the guests were already at the party. He almost missed the first wave of beef wellingtons. After getting himself a virgin mimosa (made with ginger ale), he moved to the side and watched everyone else as they mingled.

Parties weren’t really his thing, but he sure loved to observe. As he scanned the many faces—some whom he knew, and most that were strangers—he noticed Esma Boyle with a couple of friends. He thought she looked very appealing in crimson. And Piero? He looked perfectly awkward in a brown suit, an orange bowtie, and his large glasses.

At that moment, Anton Sokolov walked up behind her and got her attention. Esma turned and smiled at him. Piero grimaced.

 _What is_ _ **he**_ _doing here!?_ he cringed.

 

00000

 

Meanwhile, a pair of gossiping old biddies had trapped Corvo in a conversation. One of them wore a pair of large, coke-bottle glasses, and the other wore a plaid suit. Apparently, they were both well acquainted with the details of his personal life—more so than he would’ve preferred. But recently, that was a given. All he could he do was smile, nod, or shake his head at their comments.

“You poor, young man,” the glasses said. “And very good-looking, if you don’t mind me saying so. I have no idea what your wife could’ve been thinking!”

Corvo nodded. “Yes, well… that’s life, I suppose.”

“I heard the entire story from my son,” the plaid suit declared. “While he was on a business trip in Cullero. Such a ghastly tale. Of all the people to sink her teeth into! She must’ve been after his money, the hussy… and to do such a damnable thing—”

“Young women these days!” her companion cursed. “They just don’t respect the bonds of marriage anymore. Are you coping badly, my dear?”

Corvo shook his head. “Not at all, m’am.”

The glasses began nibbling smoked salmon on toasted bread . In the background, he noticed that some of the younger guests were starting to dance to the music.

“Will you be staying in Dunwall long?” the plaid suit asked. “Or are you here to stay?”

He shook his head. “I’m not sure yet, m’am.”

“And you’ll probably stay inside this hotel until things calm down, right?” she prodded.

He nodded. “Yes, I believe that would be wise.”

Corvo felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. Emily smiled at him.

“Well, hello there, Miss Emily!” the glasses chirped. “Is your mother here?”

Emily bobbed her head, saying, “Yes, m’am.” She grabbed his hand and started to pull him away.

“Mummy wants to talk to you,” she told him.

As she forced him to move with her, Corvo politely turned to the old ladies. “Um…goodbye. It was nice speaking to you.”

_Not._

Emily weaved through the crowd, and he did his best to follow her.

“I don’t like those two,” she said intimately. “They talk too much.”

“Respect your elders,” he warned. “And does your mother really want to talk to me?”

“She said she did.”

“But she didn’t send you, did she?”

“No.”

As they approached Jessamine and Callista, a female server was presenting them with hors d’oeuvres. Corvo saw that it was the Barbajuan he had ordered, a deep-fried pastry filled with vegetables and light cheeses. They were very popular in his hometown… and his favorite.

“Mummy,” Emily said quietly. She patted her mother on the waist.

Jessamine turned her head and jumped as she saw Corvo’s face. She smiled ardently and offered a handshake.

“I… good evening, Mr. Attano. Thank you very much for inviting us.”

Corvo raised an eyebrow and took her hand. Jessamine was being much more friendly than the last time they met. He examined her closely. She had her hair up in a loose bun, and she was wearing a _fitted_ , navy blue dress with sheer, lacy sleeves. And best of all, she wore very little make-up.

He smiled with no complaints. The server offered him the Barbajuan.

 

00000

 

The neighbor from across the hall was one of the last to arrive. Vera graciously answered the door and looked up. The man was wearing a pink dress jacket and yellow slacks; she almost laughed at him on sight. He flashed her his invitation, she stepped back to make way.

“Oh, do come in, Mr. Slackjaw!” she commanded. “Always room for more.”

T.E. Slackjaw entered the suite. “Evening, Lady Moray.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“How’s your next novel coming along?” she asked.

“Very slow,” he replied, scratching his head. “And it’s a shame. The boys back in the factory have gone on strike. Asking for wages I can’t afford to pay... and they’re too thick to understand that! Can’t concentrate on my words now…”

Vera walked with him towards the party. “That’s too bad. I’m looking forward to your next thriller.”

“Actually, I’m going for a black comedy this time around. Where’s the host?”

“Busy with a lady, I think.”

Slackjaw wiggled his eyebrows. “I’ll keep my distance then.”

 

00000

 

The music was turned up a few notches. Many of the partygoers had begun dancing in as many places as they could find. Callista and Emily were among them. Several times—the couples bumped into or narrowly missed each other, and laughter filled the air.

Meanwhile, Esma snuck into Corvo’s kitchen and stole his vodka. Waverly forced her to put it back. They quarreled in his bathroom.

Harry the cat managed to escape the army of feet by climbing onto a bookshelf. After a while, she grew impatient with her small space and wanted to move. An unsuspecting gentleman stood right beneath her, so she leapt down and landed on his shoulders. The man cried out in surprise, and his friends chuckled at his expense. He excused himself and weaved his way through the crowd, trying to find a new place for the cat to roam. Eventually, Harry left him and jumped onto the piano.

After getting two more drinks, Corvo returned to where Jessamine was waiting: the safest corner in the room. They watched everything from there.

It was all too horrible. It was all too exciting.

“Thank you so much for calming Emily down,” Jessamine said in a raised voice. “I just couldn’t get her to see reason.”

“Your welcome,” Corvo replied. “It was a pleasure.”

“It was awfully clever of you,” she complimented. “I should have thought of that—mountain sickness! Now, I really **don’t** want to take her. She gets sick very easily.”

“She’s… sickly?” he asked in concern.

“No. Just susceptible to colds and the flu.”

“Hmmm.”

Jessamine took a sip. Corvo tried not to look at her lips.

“You seem to be very with good children,” she observed. “Emily’s taken a quite a liking to you. But… I’m assuming—you have no children of your own, do you?”

He winced and slowly turned away. She quickly realized that she had asked an uncomfortable question.

“I’m… afraid not,” he replied. “I’ve never had the chance.”

“That’s too bad.” She cleared her throat and changed the subject. “I’m surprised that you know so many people in this hotel. Didn’t you say that this was your first time at The Pandyssia?”

“Actually,” he replied, “I only know a handful of _anyone_ here. And judging by the crowd, I’m starting to think that people have shown up uninvited.”

Jessamine laughed. Corvo cheered up and began to snicker.

 _This Salazar business is a bit of a put-off,_ she thought, _but… he seems nice enough._

 

 

00000

 

 _It’s all going according to plan!_ Emily thought mischievously, as she watched Corvo and her mother from the “dance floor”.

Callista, her partner, noticed the devilish look on her face and frowned. _What on earth is this girl up to?_

 

00000

 

But of course, not everyone was at a party.

After summoning Campbell to his office, Mr. Burrows sat quietly behind his desk. The room was dimly lit. Ten minutes ago, he had received a very serious phone call. After collecting himself as best he could, he had immediately called security.

The night would not end pleasantly for him.

As Campbell knocked on his door, Burrows sighed tiredly.

“I feel so damned old,” he muttered. He called out to his guest. “Come in!”

Campbell entered his office with a cold mien on his face. His eyes were domineering. Burrows, however, was too weary to be intimidated.

“Good evening, Campbell,” he said. “I trust I didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Not at all,” Campbell replied. “But it’s late, Burrows. I don’t see how this can’t wait until tomorrow.” He frowned dangerously. “Unless, you want to talk about what we discussed before…”

Burrows shook his head. “Shockingly, my calling you here has nothing to do with **that**. But, we’re about to have some trouble.”

“Trouble?”

“Oh yes. The worst kind of trouble there is.”

Campbell’s posture relaxed, and he half-smiled. “How may I help you?”

Burrows glared at him and averted his eyes in disgust.

“You are the trouble, Mr. Campbell,” he declared. “So… how is it that I may help **you**?”

Campbell went blank with confusion. “What?”

The proud secretary leaned back into his chair, refusing to look the manager in the face.

“I just finished a nice, long chat with the police,” he revealed. “You’re finished, Mr. Campbell. Finished.”

Thaddeus Campbell grew pale, and he began to tremble. “W-wha—!?”

“Apparently, Mr. Curnow sent something very interesting to them in the mail,” Burrows replied flippantly. “You bloody fool! If a man like Curnow threatens to turn you in, he obviously has the means to put you in a cell… right where you belong. But no… you can’t think that way. You never could. You thought you could intimidate them. You think that this place is your kingdom… that you’re above everyone who works in this hotel.”

He gave Campbell an empty smile. “But… you see, Campbell… that’s where you’re dead wrong. The one who rules this place is Jessamine Kaldwin. And I’m right underneath her. You’re nothing more than glorified **scum** …”

Campbell backed away and pointed a shaky a finger. “You’re one to talk, you bloody hypocrite. You—”

“And don’t think you can just escape from this. The police are already on the way to cuff you. And I’ve already contacted Martin. Security won’t let you set one foot out of this hotel.”

“If you turn me in… you’ll be coming right after me in no time. Once they start questioning me, there’s nothing to stop me from telling your dirty secrets. Your job will be the least of your worries!”

Burrow’s face twisted in anguish. He clamped his hands over his head.

“Yes,” he agreed. “I know that. I guess… we’re both done for, aren’t we?”

His hands fell to his lap, and he let out a hallow chuckle. Campbell rose in panic and turned to leave as quickly as he could. Burrows continued to laugh as he opened the door…

…Until the sound of gunfire echoed through the halls.

 

 


	9. Something's been brewing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens!

Burrows had gone silent. Everything had gone silent. The door remained wide open, but no one was standing there anymore. For a while, he sat right in his seat, in a state of total shock. He heard the sound of running footsteps in the distance.

Martin came upon the scene with a shout, and Burrows came back to earth. His eyes went wide, and he stood up from his desk, breathing irregularly.

“Mr. Burrows!” Martin cried out. “Are you alright?”

Burrows didn’t know **what** to feel. Fear? Bewilderment? _Relief_?

Thaddeus Campbell’s body lay sprawled on the floor, keeping the door wedged open. His blood seeped into the carpet.

 

00000

 

Nevertheless, over twenty floors up, the party continued on. The hors d’oeuvres quickly became sweets and pastries.

Eventually, Callista had led a begrudging Emily to bed. Jessamine had stayed behind to enjoy herself a little bit longer.

As the night drew on, the Boyle sisters could no longer tolerate being a part of the crowd. Lydia and Waverly walked over their instruments and prepared themselves. Esma found the CD player and slowly turned down the volume. Eventually, the crowd stopped, realizing that they no longer had a tune to dance to. And that was exactly the way the sisters wanted it.

Esma joined her sisters on their small, makeshift stage. Swinging her bow seductively, she gave them an insincere apology—which no one really minded at all—explaining that it was time to unwind for the evening. Some of the audience laughed in agreement. Others pushed against each other, trying to claim a nearby seat.

“Let’s not waste time with pretty speech and tomfoolery,” Esma said. “Shall we?”

The crowd cheered and whistled. As soon as the room quieted down, the sisters grinned at each other and began in full gusto. Bowed and submitted to their craft, the ladies manipulated their strings with ease. They embraced their instruments as if they were singing a lullaby to babies.

And for once, Lydia was smiling brightly.

Corvo looked on from the near front of the crowd and smiled in delight. Granted, he was no admirer of the ladies, but one thing was certain, and he refused to deny it: good lord could the Boyle Sisters play!

“They seem a tad _too_ glamorous for an intimate cocktail party,” Jessamine said, standing right beside him. And she was right; their dresses glittered and flashed in the light.

“God help us all,” Corvo replied wryly. “You should see them when they wear their printed corsets and those big, ruffled skirts….”

“Acquaintances?” she assumed with a snicker.

“In passing,” he said. “I join them now and then for a quartet or some charity concert. Once, they forced me to wear a minty green suit with red stripes. I looked like a disgusting candy cane.” He shuddered visibly. “I never liked candy canes growing up.”

She nodded with a grim look. “They give _**me**_ sore throats.”

Corvo suddenly felt a tap on his shoulder and turned his head. Anton Sokolov stood right behind him with an eager and hungry look.

“Hello, Mr. Attano,” he greeted. “Might I have—?”

“Ah, Mr. Sokolov,” Jessamine interrupted (deliberately). “What a lovely surprise. How is Emily’s portrait?”

“It’s nearly finished, Ms. Kaldwin,” he said brusquely, and he turned back to Corvo. “Listen, might I have a word with you. Say… tomorrow afternoon? I have a proposition I would like to discuss with you.”

Corvo frowned. _And you are, sir?_

“Well, I…”

Anton smiled and produced two business cards. Corvo took them and glanced over them. His attitude softened somewhat: the man was a professor _and_ an artist.

“And what would this _proposition_ be?” he asked.

“Just an artist’s whim and nothing more,” Anton replied.

Corvo shrugged cluelessly. “Alright. Why not?”

Anton smiled all teeth, bowed his head and walked away without another word. Jessamine sighed.

“He’s procrastinating on Emily’s portrait,” she muttered. “And he’s probably going to ask you to model for his piece.”

Corvo blushed beet red. “M-model!?”

 

00000

 

Detective Samuel Beechworth knew this was going to be a very irritating case. And he had hardly seen the body.

Many years ago, after leaving a part time job as a bellboy and becoming a taxi driver instead, he had hoped that he would never have to take a case in any hotel above three stars. This was the third time his wish had been denied. The smell of the buildings always turned him off. The employees always seemed to be either skittish or snooty.

At the least the security was helpful… this time around.

From his first glance, Samuel decided that Thaddeus Campbell was a horribly ugly man. And the fact that he was a suspected blackmailer wasn’t helping any. Though, it did provide plenty of motives.

As the victim was photographed and examined, the hapless detective took Martin aside to hear his account of the murder. Mr. Burrows, the closest witness he had, was twitching against his desk, but he didn’t seem all that sad to have lost an employee. He seemed more preoccupied urging the police to get the corpse out of his office.

Samuel supposed that that might’ve been natural.

“I definitely heard someone running away from the scene,” Martin declared firmly. “Unfortunately, I only got a glimpse of the bloke’s coat as he turned the corner.”

“You think it was a man?” Samuel asked.

“Could’ve been a woman for all I know. But I’ve never seen a woman wearing bulky, brown coats in this hotel.”

“That’s assuming that the murderer’s a guest.”

“It has to be.”

Samuel glared at him with a raised eyebrow. “Why so sure of that?”

“Because I have security guards posted at every exit in this building. If this perpetrator tried to escape this hotel, they would’ve caught him by now.”

“He might’ve ducked into a restaurant.”

“The Golden Cat and the Abbey are closed. The Pandyssia Café is filled up for some comedian. And the barmaid of the Hound Pits hasn’t seen anyone suspicious.”

“They could’ve ditched the coat.”

Martin frowned but nodded in agreement. “Perhaps, but—”

Burrows walked up to them, his face pale and cold.

“If you can’t remove Mr. Campbell out of my office right now,” he said in a solemn voice, “can we at least contact Ms. Kaldwin? And can I get a bloody drink?”

“Already taken care of, sir,” Martin informed him. “I’ve sent someone after her. ”

“You can go get yer drink,” Samuel said. “Hound Pits, right? I’ll come after you later.”

Burrows waved them off without another word and trudged out of his office. They watched him slowly retreat down the hall and exchanged looks.

“The consumption of alcohol has been higher than usual around here,” Martin said.

Samuel allowed himself a lopsided grin. “I’ll bet it has.”

 

00000

 

Callista stared blankly into the mirror with half-closed eyes as she gently brushed her hair. She breathed in deep, smelling the chamomile candle that was burning on her nightstand. Emily had long been put to bed.

It was all over, she believed. By now, Mr. Campbell should’ve been arrested, and she would finally be free from his grasp. Though, the task of having to explain herself to Ms. Kaldwin made her rather anxious. Even if she understood that her employer wouldn’t be cold enough to fire her. And the thought of having her past catch up with her in such a way—it disgusted her to no end.

 _Perhaps, I’ll ask for a day off,_ Callista mused. _Not tomorrow. Maybe next week. When Ms. Kaldwin has no meetings. I’ll go with my uncle somewhere. Perhaps, a nice walk in the park and lunch on other side of town. I need to get my head on straight._

She forced herself to smile and put away her brush. She walked towards her bed and pulled back the sheets to get in.

And the telephone rang.

Callista frowned but sat down to answer it.

“Hello?” she murmured. “…Speaking?”

The person on the other end spoke with so much force that her senses were jolted. She straightened up right away.

“Wait,” she interrupted. “What’s with all the fuss? What’s going on?”

As she listened, her face paled. She squeezed the receiver with both hands.

“Dead…” she said weakly. “Murdered!? Why—!?”

Callista swallowed hard and tried to compose herself.

“No. I don’t know where my uncle is. Perhaps… in his suite? Alright… I un…I understand. I’ll talk to Martin when he comes. G-goodnight.”

Callista slowly hung up the receiver and buried her face in her hands.

 

00000

 

By then, the Boyle sisters had played at least six pieces for the guests. Some had become drowsy from the lulling affect of the music—and the previous dancing—and quietly left the suite. Others stood to get a good view, and the rest had found a good place to just sit and listen. Many were having their last drinks for the night. An elderly woman had dozed off on the couch.

From Vera’s point of view, Corvo had hardly paid attention to the trio. He was more engrossed in talking to Jessamine, who was currently eating small éclairs and chuckling at something he said. Vera was somewhat relieved that he was able to be friendly with an attractive woman. It was good for him, she believed. The sooner he recovered from his ex—no, his former wife—the better. Though, from what she could see, Corvo was maintaining a very controlled distance.

 _I suppose that’s going to take a while,_ she mused.

As soon as they had finished off their latest song, the Boyle sisters briefly conversed amongst themselves. After coming to a decision, Esma and Waverly set their instruments aside and marched towards him with indignation on their lips. Waverly grappled his arm, pulling him towards the piano. As he protested, Esma slipped behind him and pushed him forward with all might. She cooed and deliberately pressed her chest against his back. He hissed and arched his back away from her.

Jessamine watched in shock. Vera raised an eyebrow at the scene.

Corvo was roughly deposited onto the bench. Waverly lifted up the cover and went back to her viola.

He looked Vera’s way, possibly for some sympathy, but she merely shrugged. Esma whispered something in his ear, making counting gestures with her fingers. He rolled his eyes and nodded. She patted him on the chest and returned to her post.

Waverly raised her bow dramatically, giggling in triumph. Jessamine smiled eagerly, finishing her sweets. Corvo sighed, cursing his fate. Vera leaned back into an armchair, sipping on a glass of champagne she had snuck.

She liked variety.

As the concert restarted with a melancholy tune, someone tapped on the back of her chair. Vera looked up and opened her mouth in surprise. And then, she took another sip from her glass without looking away.

A man leaned against her chair and gave her a wink. Vera simpered and turned back to the concert.

The man might’ve been decidedly plain if he hadn’t had the eyes of a shark—deep, dark, and vast. His brunette hair was cut in a nondescript style. His brown suede blazer had no fancy buttons or useless pockets. He was tall, but not imposingly so. His presence was understated; no one nearby paid him any mind. He was the type of person that no one would really notice.

“I wasn’t entirely sure you’d come, Outsider,” Vera said quietly.

“Ah, Granny Rags,” The Outsider replied, “you know I can’t a resist a party. The cream puffs are nice. Shall we have a private chat after this number?”

“Of course. I like our chats.”

 

00000

 

A few minutes later, The Outsider opened the door, letting her go first. Vera stepped out into the hall, still holding her glass.

“Speaking of parties,” he said, “how is _dear_ Corvo fairing?”

“I think he’s beginning to dislike you,” she answered. “After all, you _**are**_ being rather rough with him.”

“Well, at least I’m occupying his mind on other things.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

The Outsider chuckled darkly.

“How’s Daud these days?” she asked with morbid curiosity.

“Stewing at one of his late father’s vineyards,” he revealed. “I’m sure he’ll be comfortable for the rest of his miserable life.”

“I think that’ll cheer Corvo up a little.”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

Vera sighed tiredly and finished her champagne.

“I have a question for you,” she said.

“Ask away,” he replied.

“Why on earth **did** you ask Piero to do… _that_?”

“What? Are you talking about the ‘graffiti’? I only thought it would be convenient to get the facts out into the open.”

“Facts?”

The Outsider smiled softly and leaned against the wall. He crossed his arms, looking deeply into space.

“I have a feeling,” he said, “a gut instinct… that a catastrophe is about to happen.”

“Catastrophe?” Vera asked.

He wiggled his eyebrows. “Oh, yes. I’ve been observing the hotel staff ever since I took up residence here. Something’s been brewing in this hotel for a quite a while now. And I think… it’ll all come tumbling down very soon.”

“Can you be a tad more specific?”

“Hmmm. Let’s just say that the management in this hotel—they aren’t the best of friends with each other. Of course, that may very well have _**nothing**_ to do with it.”

Vera grinned and shook her head. “I’ll have to take your word for it. Your instincts are usually correct.”

The Outsider glanced to the side and stared down the hall. Vera turned her head, wondering what had gotten his attention. Two men, clad in black suits, marched towards them with severe frowns on their faces. They were obviously hotel security.

“Oh my!” The Outsider said with glee. “I think it’s happened already…”

 

00000

 

Jessamine Kaldwin had sat down to a vacant seat, completely unawares. The Boyle sisters were still holding Corvo captive at the piano. Apparently, he had spent too much time talking to her and not enough time listening to their private performance. He had twice attempted to rise from the bench, but he had quickly been brought down by the sisters’ poisonous glares. Jessamine felt somewhat sorry for him, but her desire to enjoy his performance far outweighed her need to rescue him.

So, Corvo gave the performance of his life—literally—playing “From the Tops of Morley Cliffs Second Suite”. Despite the forced performance, he still retained that almost absentminded air. But unlike last time she had seen him play, he was much more reserved, giving off the illusion that he was half-asleep.

And yet, as much as she delighted in the music, Jessamine couldn’t help but frown.

Corvo Attano. A new resident of the Pandyssia. The more time she spent around him, the less she understood about him.

Sure, he was clearly a good man, quiet and well-spoken, and he seemed to have a genuine concern for her daughter. Not only that, he was very private; he didn’t speak a word of his personal life. And yet, according to the papers, this was also the same man who dropped his inheritance, thereby abandoning his own half-brother to the wolves and turning Salazar Law on its head. From what her Serkonian lawyers told her, many of the higher ups were getting sacked left and right… and it had barely been weeks since “The Whale” had laid claim to the company!

To be fair, judging that they were both the late Salazar’s sons but with completely different surnames, their relationship was most likely dysfunctional. But what would cause Corvo to despise his brother so much that he would be willing to give up (possibly) millions to see him _**ruined**_?

And from some sources, Corvo had recently ended his marriage, but he behaved like a bachelor more than anything else. And if he liked children so much, why did he have none of his own?

The newspapers in Gristol weren’t all that helpful. The more she tried to examine the facts, the more she felt like a nosy wretch, and she was too proud to lower herself to gossip. Corvo Attano remained a mystery to her. And she always felt daunted by things she couldn’t figure out.

 _That’s probably for the best, Jess,_ she told herself. _Stop thinking about it. It’s not your problem._

She forced herself to relax and considered getting another drink. It wouldn’t hurt her much.

“Ms. Kaldwin,” a voice spoke above her.

Jessamine turned her head to a see a security guard standing behind her.

 _How did he get in here?_ she thought.

“Yes?” she asked.

The guard leaned over and whispered in her ear. “I beg your pardon for disturbing your evening, but we have an emergency. The police are here.”

Upon hearing the word “police”, Jessamine nearly forgot to breathe. She sprang to her feet and walked out of the living room, the guard following close behind.

 

00000

 

“So, Thaddeus Campbell… is dead,” Jessamine said in quiet horror.

The guards followed her through the lobby, barely keeping her up with her pace.

“I’m afraid so,” one of them replied. “Shot to the chest. Apparently, he was walking out of Mr. Burrows’ office, and someone took a pot shot at him.”

Jessamine shook her head. “I never liked the man, but he was one of my best employees…”

“That’s not the only issue, m’am,” he replied. “The police were already on their way _**before**_ the shooting.”

She stopped in her tracks and turned to face them. They froze nervously.

“What?” she asked.

The other guard cleared his throat. “Well, the police were coming to arrest… Thaddeus Campbell. For blackmail and assault.”

Jessamine stared wide-eyed and her jaw opened wide. The security guards stepped forward.

“Uh, m’am—”

“On bloody hell!” she muttered.

She spun on her heels, going faster than before. She puffed through her nose and squeezed her forehead hard.

 _Why!?_ she thought in outrage. _Why did this have to happen_ _ **now**_ _of all times? We’re already hanging by a thread!_

Jessamine already knew she wouldn’t get any sleep that night.

 

 


	10. Screw this! I'm out of here!

After Corvo had been released from captivity, Vera had bid him goodnight and returned to her suite. But unbeknownst to anyone, she had invited The Outsider herself for some midnight tea. Vera had hoped for a leisurely chat before going to sleep, but when she pried him to tell her _**exactly**_ what was happening on the first floor, he was all too happy to explain his revelations. Her peaceful mood quickly turned to horror.

“Murder,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Murder!?”

“Yes, Granny Rags,” he replied coolly. “Murder.”

“You **knew** this would happen!?”

The Outsider nodded. “Unfortunately.”

“And you did nothing to prevent it!?” she snapped.

He raised his hands in defense. “What was _**I**_ supposed to do? Call the police and tell them that there was murder in someone’s _**heart**_? No, no, my darling. Things aren’t always that simple—even i _f_ you _**do**_ have all of the money in the world. And besides, I wouldn’t have been able to tell them _**who**_ did it.”

Vera slumped in her chair; her eyes going into a blank daze. The Outsider calmly sipped on chamomile and smiled.

“So... Thaddeus Campbell was a blackmailer,” she said, shaking her head. “An ugly thug in a business suit. And you expected only _him_ to die?”

“Not at all,” he replied. “He wasn't the only candidate. The victim being Hiram Burrows was always a possibility... and Esma Boyle too...”

She chuckled in agreement. “But if anyone has any reason to want them dead, who's to say that their lives aren't still in danger?”

The Outsider grinned at her, pleased with her question. “Of course. It's not over yet. Not by a long shot.”

Vera shrugged. “I was afraid of that. So, what do you predict happens next?”

“That, my darling… is for **you** to sit back and watch…”

 

00000

 

With the proper evidence, Hiram Burrows was relieved to find that he was not a suspect. Detective Beechworth was fair. It was decided that Mr. Burrows would’ve had no time to dispose of a gun before Martin came upon the murder, nor was any gun found near the crime scene. However, to his dismay, his office had been thoroughly searched… and haphazardly put back together.

The police were further disappointed when they discovered that Callista was at a party and her uncle was allegedly receiving a late room service at the time of the murder (though the police wrinkled their noses as the latter’s alibi). In the end, they had to accept that there was no reason for either of them to shoot a man they had just consigned to prison.

So, no one would be arrested that night.

All they could do was deliver Campbell’s body to the morgue and contact his distant relatives in Whitecliff. The hapless detective wasn’t very happy about it either. He didn’t favor the prospect of having to be around The Pandyssia any longer.

Once Burrows was released from questioning, he trudged silently to his suite, twitchy and completely red in the cheeks. After hanging up his jacket, unbuttoning his starched collar, and dousing his face in cold water, he made two calls with a very shaky hand. One of them for a very strong cocktail and the other was for… helpful company.

He didn’t need to wait long. Five minutes later, his doorbell rang, and he peered cautiously through the peephole. He opened the door halfway, fixing a smile on his face, and Esma Boyle greeted him with a coy smirk. She was a wearing a silk, pink negligee, a matching robe, and her blond ringlets hung loose.

“You walked… all the way here in that?” he asked with a gape.

“Yes… but no one knows the difference at night…” she crooned, “if you’re wearing a pair of heels!”

Esma gave him a sultry hum and wrapped her arms around him, caressing his nape. He slowly dragged her into the safety of his suite. She only followed with a predatory grin. He could smell the champagne all over her breath.

“And lucky you that I came to you in one piece. I’m absolutely _drained_ …”

“So…you had a… good time, darling?”

“It was a smashing party! Though Ms. Kaldwin and that little monster were there. I’m sorry that **you** weren’t invited!”

Burrows coughed inwardly, his jaw tightening. Esma raised her eyebrows and examined his face. He had circles under his eyes.

“What’s the matter with you?” she asked. “You’re as white as a sheet!”

He replied with a tired sigh but continued to smile.

“You said to come by when you called,” she recalled. “What? Aren’t you up for—mmmph!?”

Burrows crushed her lips with his. She allowed herself with a muffled, pleasured whine before breaking away. He held her fast around the waist, his hands inching lower and lower.

“H-Hiram!” she cried. “Go easy on me! I already told you; I don’t have much in me right now.”

Burrows simpered, wanting to indulge in his helpful little distraction. After all, as far as he knew, a vengeful shooter had freed him.

“Oh, you have enough,” he declared. “I’m sure you have more than enough.” _Ah, it’s good to be alive!_

“You’re friskier than usual!” she squeaked. “What on the isles has gotten into you?”

Esma giggled as he buried his nose in her neck, and she struggled to close the door behind her.

 

00000

 

For many, the morning came all too quickly. For some, even more so.

As she predicted, Jessamine found herself staring at her clock at four in the morning. She dreaded taking some sort of drug to help her sleep, but she knew that she wouldn’t have any choice. At the very least, she had no appointments for the day… ignoring that the police would come to call on her.

Callista had been forced to take a pill and was given a few days off, provided that she did not leave the hotel until the matter died. That meant that Jessamine would either have to hire temporary care for Emily (a definite **no** ) or take care of Emily herself.

She was getting a headache. She cursed the fact that aspirins and sleeping drugs weren’t safe to take at the same time.

Jessamine sat at the edge of her bed, holding her head in her sweaty hands. She had been confident enough to believe she could uphold the standards of her hotel, and she was fully prepared to cut her losses. But she wasn’t prepared for this—not for this. She wondered what The Outsider thought of this mess; no doubt that the news would’ve reached his ears by now—she knew his reputation all too well.

It was bad enough that a member of her chief staff was murdered in cold blood, but the fact that he was a proven blackmailer made it all the more unbearable. And threatening her daughter’s caretaker in order to gain what she could only imagine what?

How would this look in the public eye?

Jessamine only hoped that Callista wouldn’t feel inhibited in continuing her employment. Emily adored her… and it wasn’t as if she couldn’t figure out what Campbell had dug up on the unlucky woman. It made her grit her teeth.

 _Why did my father even hire that warthog!?_ she seethed.

Then again, she had to admit that her judge of character wasn’t any better.

“Time for that very large sleeping pill,” Jessamine droned quietly. She rose from the bed, hand on forehead, and went to the kitchen to get a bottle of water. She never bothered to put on her slippers.

When she started to go back, she heard rustling coming from the front hall. Curious, she set her water aside and walked to the front door. There was an envelope laying on the ground, and her name written on it with familiar letters. She picked it up and opened it. The contents startled her.

 

_I highly recommend taking off the rest of the month, Ms. Kaldwin. It’s about to get uglier._

 

_\- The Outsider_

 

_P.S._

 

_By the way, you looked lovely last night._

 

Jessamine gulped and folded the letter back into the envelope. She wondered if sleeping pills were a good idea anymore.

 

00000

 

By half past five, Mr. Burrows’ coffee arrived, along with a freshly baked muffin. He took his pre-breakfast delight in the living room. He sat on the couch in his long, fuzzy robe and sipped on his coffee with a renewed confidence. At last, his unseemly tracks—unearthed by the late Mr. Campbell—were neatly swept under the rug. And there would be no more; **he** would make sure of that.

Esma Boyle sauntered into the room, wearing only her pink robe. Her eyes were half closed, and she absentmindedly scratched her scalp. Her light groans were the only thing that alerted him of her presence.

“Esma…” he gently chided. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

“I’ll sleep later,” she mumbled.

She slumped next to him and rested her head on his shoulder. “Or I could sleep right here.”

“I still have work to do.”

“The pushy little ‘Empress’ won’t let you have a day off after seeing a dead body?”

“Not much… I suppose. I don’t imagine she would go out today. Her sensibilities probably kept her up all night!”

Esma snickered and stroked his chest. “But you kept _**me**_ up…”

“Sorry,” he replied.

She sighed, biting her lip, and looked up at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Was he actually shot when he stepped out of your office?” she asked.

“Yes… but…”

“Was it after he stepped out... or was right when he opened the door?”

Burrows frowned at her but smiled wryly. “You’re being very inquisitive for a sleepy woman.”

“Which was it?” Esma prodded.

“It was right when he opened the door,” he replied. “Why?”

Esma curled up closer, pulling her legs up onto the couch.

“It’s nothing,” she replied drowsily.

As he continued drinking his coffee, she mumbled something that he could barely hear:

“…just my imagination…”

 

00000

 

At eight o’clock, Corvo was still lying naked in bed, recovering from the night before. He was content with his face full of pillow, the sheets were bunched up at his waist, and Harry the cat was snoozing next to his head. The alarm clock was off. Sleep came and went, and he felt like he was in heaven. Perhaps, that was because he now believed he could handle whatever The Outsider dished out.

Hopefully…

His cell phone received a text message, to his slight annoyance, but he went to look at it anyway.

 

_Meet as a group at The Golden Cat in one hour._

 

_\- The Outsider_

 

Corvo dropped the phone beside him, grabbed his other pillow, and covered his head completely. Harry dodged and climbed onto his back.

 

00000

 

After freshening up, getting dressed, and feeding Harry, Corvo left his suite and went down to The Golden Cat.

 _At least I can have the quiches,_ he consoled himself.

When he arrived, an old, redheaded woman was waiting near the door. “Mr. Attano?” she called out. Corvo looked at the old woman’s heavily made-up face, and he couldn’t help but think that her expression was very dour. Or perhaps, that was only because her face was wrinkled up like a monkey’s. Her perfume made him want to sneeze. Her nametag read “Prudence”.

“Yes, ma’am?” he replied.

Madame Prudence stared briefly, giving him a once over with her eyes that made him feel uncomfortable.

“Right this way, please.”

She walked deeper into the teahouse, marching through the aisles with the manner of a general. He followed behind her without a word, and her hips swayed with an exaggerated manner, making him grimace and purse his lips. She led him to the back of the teahouse, where there was a small, private room. Piero and Vera were waiting inside with a fresh pot of tea.

He turned to the elderly woman and thanked her.

Madame Prudence examined him even harder this time, and a half-smile suddenly appeared on her face.

“Anytime, dearie,” she drawled.

After she shut the door, Corvo allowed himself a shudder.

“Come sit down,” Vera commanded. “We have much to talk about.”

Corvo shrugged and seated himself next to Piero. “Since when do we **not**?”

Vera removed the tea cozy, poured him a cup, and dropped in two sugar cubes.

“Have you heard the news yet?” she asked, her tone serious. “About Mr. Campbell, the hotel manager?”

“No,” he replied. “What’s the matter?”

“He’s dead,” Piero said.

Corvo stopped in shock. “Dead!?”

“Dead. Murdered. Shot. In. Cold. Blood.”

Corvo took a deep breath and poured his cream. “In this hotel!?”

Vera nodded. “It happened while we were all still at the party!”

“Damned unpleasant, isn’t it?” Piero said. “And they think the shooter might still **be** in the hotel!”

“That’s not all,” she added. “Apparently, the police were about to arrest him. He was a blackmailer!”

Corvo silently stirred his tea without a word.

“He really was an arm-twisting pig!” Piero mused. “He was hustling poor Callista Curnow… and her uncle!”

He lowered his eyes worriedly. “Poor Miss Curnow.”

“Callista?” Corvo asked. “Why… Callista?”

“Who knows?” Vera replied. “But it obviously wasn’t something that could get **her** arrested. I feel for the woman. I wonder what the scoundrel wanted from her.”

“She’s pretty,” Piero answered. “What do you **think** he wanted?”

“Don’t be so crass!”

Corvo finally decided that he would cherish all of the peaceful moments and small doses of happiness he could get. So, he quietly drank his tea and was thankful for it.

 

00000

 

The group barely enjoyed a light breakfast of muffins and miniature quiches. Piero left his food half-finished and piddled with his tea. Conversation always led back to Callista’s plight. Corvo silently wondered how Emily was dealing with it…if she needed to at all. No one was feeling particularly hungry.

And when the infamous letter arrived in the hands of a bubbly Cecelia, Corvo completely lost his appetite.

 _Here we go again,_ he thought.

“Good morning, lady and gents,” Cecelia greeted. “Nice day for a murder, eh?”

“You’re terribly cheerful about it!” Vera gasped.

Cecelia pushed out her lip and rolled her eyes. “Why not? I know a lot about Mr. Campbell. He’s a wrong’ un who’s forced several of the maids into ‘overtime work’, so as far as I’m concerned, that bullet was an _**improvement**_!”

Piero stifled a much-needed chortle. Vera scowled at him, and he slowly turned away.

“Just read the letter, dear,” she said with a sighed. “We know the drill.”

Cecelia opened the letter, cleared her throat, and obeyed.

 

_Good morning, participants,_

 

_By now, I’m sure you’ve heard of the murder of Thaddeus Campbell, the “esteemed” manager of The Pandyssia. Though, judging by his history of blackmail, this was probably the expected outcome._

 

_But before we discuss that any further, I have a few trivial commands for you:_

 

_For Vera, please change your rooms color scheme to a blend of pinks and greens and ask concierge to buy the ingredients for oatmeal cookies._

 

_For Piero, change your color scheme to a blend of brown and yellow and ask concierge for a dozen children books (the more feminine the better)._

 

_And for you, dear Corvo, change your color scheme to a blend of red and black and ask concierge to buy you a recipe for mocktails. Also, I’ve been informed that you’ve caught the attention of Anton Sokolov. Please pose for his next painting._

 

 

Corvo went grey and sucked in his cheeks. Piero eyed him with sympathy.

Vera gave him a concerned look. “Corvo?”

He sighed without a word and his head drooped. _I guess that’s not so bad._

 

_Now with that aside, the murder!_

 

_I suppose, in a romantic sense, it’s all very exciting. However, in reality, it’s nothing short of a nightmare –that’s a given. And I don’t find it pleasing to live in the same building with a murderer._

 

 

“Wait a second!” Piero stopped. “He _lives_ here!?”

Cecelia continued without a reply.

 

 

_Therefore, it is time to give my next official order to you:_

 

_I want all of you to assist me in solving the murder of Thaddeus Campbell…_

 

 

Corvo dropped his jaw. Piero almost fell out of his chair. Vera sucked loudly against her teacup.

 

 

_With that in mind, I will set out a few more rules:_

 

  1. _Again, do not disclose your association with me if questioned on your actions._

  2. _If you need special information, call on_ _ **my**_ _assistance._

  3. _Avoid Detective Samuel Beechworth and the police._

  4. _Avoid room service and cook your own food._

  5. _Do not drink any alcohol. You need to keep your wits about you._

  6. _If in the event you come across the murderer, please refrain from confrontation unless necessary. You’re useless to me as a corpse._




 

_As an extra precaution, you will have no maid service from the hotel. I have made arrangements for my own employees to keep house for you. Please keep in mind that you must all work as a team. If either of you decides to back out of this, none of you will receive your reward. I’m not saying that out of malice; there is safety in numbers._

 

_Tonight, meet up again in The Abbey Restaurant at eight o’clock. More information will await you._

 

_Good luck, and please stay safe._

 

_Farewell, Gypsies,_

 

_The Outsider_

 

 

The table remained speechless. Cecelia cheerfully folded up the letter and put it on the table. She bowed her with a wide smile.

“Well, have a nice day, everyone!” she chirped, and she turned around and left the room.

For a moment, the trio sat silent, without even giving each other a glance. Piero started having spasms, and he stared at the door for a long time…

“Oh _my_ word!” Vera said, breaking the silence.

Piero stood up from the table. Corvo and Vera looked up in surprise. Without a word, he began to walk away, towards the door.

“Mr. Joplin, where **ARE** you going!?” Vera called after him.

“Screw this!” Piero yelled. “I’m out of here!”

Vera huffed in outrage and jumped up after him. She grabbed his arm and gave him a tight squeeze.

“Augh!” he winced. “Are you crazy!? I’m not going after some homicidal maniac!”

“Oh, come off it, you yellow-striped mouse!” she snarled. “I have an orphanage on the line for this. And that’s nothing compared to what Corvo will get! If you walk out on us, we’ll all sink with you!”

Corvo watched the argument in silence, wondering why he _**hadn’t**_ _tried_ to follow Piero’s lead.

“I need saner friends,” he muttered.

Then again, based on what **he** had done to get himself involved with The Outsider, Corvo was only sane by comparison. And he was mournfully aware of that.

 


	11. You are a man who truly needs to relax

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, my dears... I have no excuses... other than life...

Meanwhile, in the shared suite of the Boyle sisters, Esma lounged in bathtub and stroked one of her calves. She had just begun the slow ritual, the one she always followed when she prepared for a long, romantic evening with her current beau. She had especially chosen a lavender wine bath oil for the occasion.

Hiram Burrows was fond of the scent.

And she needed to unwind. Ever since she came back from his suite, she couldn't help but be on edge. She was worried. She couldn't help but think that the trouble wasn't over yet. That something else would happen. That Hiram was—

She leaned against the edge of the tub and shook her head. _You're overreacting_. _It's got nothing to do with you. Mr. Campbell was murdered by some poor soul he decided to blackmail. Isn't that clear? There are probably lots of people who wanted the man dead!_

A loud knock rapped at the door. She raised her head.

“Esma,” Waverly called out. “Can I talk to you?”

Esma sighed. “Come on in!”

Waverly walked into the bathroom. She folded her legs under the water and sat up.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I...I don't think you should be out tonight,” Waverly said.

Esma frowned. “Why ever not?”

Waverly took a deep breath and sat on the toilet seat. She closed her eyes and bit her lip.

“Something's not right. The shooting...”

Esma scoffed and shook her head. “Your 'intuition'?”

“Why last night?” Waverly asked.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Why would someone choose to kill Thaddeus Campbell on the night he would be arrested?”

Esma shrugged and splashed some water on her shoulder.

“They obviously didn't know. No one did.”

“But why? If someone wanted to kill him, why didn't it happen sooner? It's all... too strange. Almost... too ironic to be true. And you said so yourself: 'he was shot right when he opened the door'. Maybe... you should have dinner with Mr. Burrows inside his suite... not the Abbey. Just to be safe.”

Esma rubbed her cheek. “I really don't need this.”

“You're foolish, I'll admit,” Waverly replied, “but as far as I know, you're not without some sort of intelligence.”

“It's a sad day when the younger sister has the gall to call her older sister foolish,” Esma chided.

“I agree with you.”

“Hah!”

Waverly crossed her arms, glaring down at her. “You're worried too, you know. I can tell.”

“Why should I be?” Esma asked.

“Because—Esma dear—you believe every word I'm saying.”

The glow left her face, and she turned stark pale. Waverly watched. She slumped down, folding her arms over the edge of the tub, and hid her face from view. Her head rocked back and forth.

“Alright...” Esma finally said. “Just to be safe... I'll ask him to cancel it.”

Waverly smiled and nodded. She slowly got up from the toilet and gave Esma a kiss on the head.

“I'll call him for you,” she said, walking towards the door. “Before you change your mind.”

“You spoil my fun.”

“Someone has too.”

Waverly slid through the door. Before she left, she poked her head through and gave Esma one last look.

“Sis?” Waverly said.

“Yes, what?” Esma muttered.

“I know Mr. Burrows is a little shifty...” she said, “but even our father's a bit a of a crook, so I guess I don't really mind. You've kept him for quite a while, and I think you've got something good going for you.”

“Your point, dear?”

“You can't live like this forever. Chewing men up and spitting them out as fast as you can. It's not safe. Men have egos.”

“You keep saying that all the bloody time. You're like a broken record.”

Waverly sighed and shut the door, leaving Esma alone. She sat in the water, unmoving, and stayed that way for a long time.

 

00000

 

Before his appointment with Anton Sokolov, Corvo received a text message from The Outsider:

' _Please be as_ _accommodating to Mr. Sokolov as possible,'_ it had said.

He wondered—with a brief shiver up the spine—what that was supposed to mean. Nevertheless, after leaving his suite to a group of maids—who were carrying in various items of red and black—Corvo rode three floors down the elevator and walked up to the suite of Anton Sokolov.

He didn’t exactly like that Sokolov lived at the very end of the hall. The fact that there was a hanging sign, reading “Genius At Work” didn't help in the least. His head dropped as he heaved a sigh, and he rang the doorbell.

As soon as the artist opened the door, Corvo looked into his wrinkled face and forced a smile.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Sokolov,” he greeted.

“Ah! Mr. Attano!” Sokolov cried. He grabbed Corvo by the wrist, shaking his arm vigorously. “Welcome, good sir! Come in! Come in!”

Corvo found himself being tugged into the suite, and the door shut behind him with a loud click.

“I tell you,” Sokolov said, letting him go, “I was relieved when you called me back! Ofttimes, some people simply ignore me. Very rude! But you? Quite refreshing! Would you like a glass of Tyvian wine?”

“No thank you,” Corvo replied.

They entered the living room, and Sokolov encouraged him to sit down. He then took the liberty of pouring himself a drink. Corvo glanced around with some surprise. The living room was much more tidy than he had imagined it would be.

“Ahhhh,” Sokolov sighed, sitting in an armchair across from him. “Are you sure that—”

“No,” Corvo replied. “No drink for me.”

“Are you familiar with my art in any way, Mr. Attano?”

Corvo nodded. “Yes. As I recall…I saw some of your work in a gallery in Cullero. Years ago—with my father.”

“The late Mr. Salazar?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have an interest in the visual arts? Do you collect?”

“I’m not much of a collector, but I often visit art festivals and exhibits.”

Sokolov nodded, setting down his glass. “That’s a relief! Youngsters and models these days. All they care about is money! And the commissioners are worse! They only want something to show off in their ‘grand houses’—a trophy! You can scarcely find any of them with any _real_ appreciation for the arts. You’re good enough for me…”

The artist stood up and walked towards his bookshelf. Corvo craned his neck and watched as he pulled out a large sketchpad.

“I would like to do a test sketch of you,” he said. “To get a feel for your features. It will only take one hour.”

“Alright,” Corvo allowed. “Make a pose and sit still?”

Sokolov didn’t answer. He dropped the sketchpad onto his chair and stalked towards his model. Corvo raised an eyebrow.

“Would you mind taking off your... jacket?” he asked, raising one of his busy eyebrows.

“Of course not,” Corvo answered.

He slipped out of his jacket, and Sokolov drew closer and closer. As he folded his jacket and put it to the side, Sokolov reached out and undid some of the buttons in his shirt.

“Excuse m—!”

“Just a few buttons, boy,” Sokolov said. “You should expose your collarbones more often. You have well-shaped collarbones. You have no idea how much women flock to that. Very odd.”

 _So did my former wife…_ Corvo remembered. _Bitch._

Sokolov put his hands on Corvo’s head and ruffled up his hair. Corvo sucked air through his nostrils didn’t say a word.

 _Be as accommodating as possible,_ he repeated in mental mantra. _Be as accommodating as possible._

The strange deed done, Sokolov stepped back to examine him. He smiled in satisfaction. Corvo felt mildly violated.

“Would you mind swinging your arm around the back…?” he requested.

Corvo hung his arm over the back of the chair.

“Now tilt your head… slightly. Good. Make sure not to smile. Let’s begin then, shall we?”

Sokolov sat down, sketch pencil in hand, and finally began to create. Corvo puffed air through his nose.

“Dreadful business—that murder,” Sokolov commented. “To think it was happening right underneath us. Such is life.”

Corvo had nothing to add to that.

“But I suppose it was karma,” he went on. “Apparently, he was great blackmailer of some sort. Even some of the guests were under his thumb? Can you imagine that?”

“No, sir,” Corvo replied.

“Would you mind if I asked you personal questions while a sketch? I like getting into my subjects' heads.”

Corvo stiffened slightly. “…Why?”

“Art is a passion,” he explained. “I’m actually a psychologist… and the President of the Academy of Natural Philosophy. Your behavior in handling your crisis was interesting, so I wanted to understand the _psychological_ aspects of it. And don’t worry—mum's the word.”

Corvo stared at him very hard. _Be as accommodating as possible._

“Is a psychologist as good as a psychiatrist? I might appreciate one.”

“Psychiatry is for diagnosing and treating mental illnesses. Though—despite your actions—I’m willing to believe you’re quite healthy…”

_I’m glad to have a professional opinion. I guess…_

“As long as… they aren’t too personal,” Corvo hoped.

“You are familiar with Professor Joplin, am I right?” the artist asked.

“I’m… acquainted with him,” he answered.

It wasn't a complete lie. He barely knew the man.

“Would you mind telling him of your experience today? I think if he heard from someone else… he might be more willing to pose for me. He’s more shy than he’ll admit.”

“I'll make sure to do so.”

“Glad. Tell me dear boy. Is it true that you’re a love child?”

Corvo cleared his throat. “Yes. My father never made any secret of it.”

“Why do you suppose he did that?” Sokolov mused. “That’s a bit unusual, even in this modern age.”

“I've never been sure, sir,” Corvo said.

“Do you believe your mother was a factor in his affections?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you think he projected his feelings for her… onto you?”

Corvo cleared his throat again.

“Don’t move too much, please,” Sokolov chided.

“I never had a very deep understanding of their relationship. Mother and Father... they kept all of their business in “sections” you see. Like keeping different items in different drawers.”

“I understand. They compartmentalized. So, according to the newspapers, you are on the terms _most bad_ with your older brother? Daud Salazar?”

Corvo groaned and creased his eyebrows. Sokolov stopped for a moment and studied his reaction.

“No need to answer,” he continued, with a wide grin. “I can read it all over your face.”

_This is going to be a very, long hour._

 

00000

 

One very long hour later, Corvo left Sokolov's suite. But for some odd reason, he actually felt better when he left then he did when he arrived. There was even a slight bounce in his step. The strange artist had asked so many questions—especially uncomfortable ones about his childhood—that he hadn't gotten off his chest in a long time. If he ever had before.

“I suppose... it wasn't so bad,” he admitted.

But the tension wasn't gone. Now, he had to deal with The Outsider's... “orders”. No matter how impossible they truly were.

_Me... Lady Moray... and Mr. Joplin? Solving a murder? Don't make me laugh! We aren't detectives. We aren't even amateur sleuths! What is he thinking!?_

Corvo stopped in front of the elevator and thought for a moment.

_Oh, wait. I forgot. He's a raving lunatic._

He returned to his suite in silence.

As he turned the corner, drawing closer, he caught sight of Emily sitting between the maids' cart and his door, which was still propped open. There she was—dressed in black. She was balled up in a huddle, her face hidden from view.

That was bad.

She must have heard his footsteps. Emily looked up with the most miserable look on her face that he had ever seen on a child. Corvo stooped down at her level and touched her shoulder.

“What's wrong?” he asked. “What are you doing here?”

“Callista's not here,” Emily mumbled. “Mummy's busy. Mr. Campbell. He's—”

She couldn't finish.

“Yes, I know...” Corvo replied. “It's awful, isn't it?”

“Is it true someone shot him because he'd been nasty?” she asked.

“What?” he replied.

“They said he was being really mean to Callista and Mr. Curnow. And he was bullying some ladies into... doing stuff for him. So, was it okay that someone shot him? Lots of people are saying so.”

Corvo was at a loss. He hadn't known the child long, and she was now there, asking difficult questions. And she had apparently been hearing some “adult business” that day. He wondered if he should say anything at all. In his personal opinion, any man who'd blackmail a woman—for very obvious reasons—deserved castration without anesthesia rather than quick death by gunshot. Not that he would dare tell a child that.

And if it wasn't for The Outsider and his whims, it wouldn't have been any of Corvo's business.

“Well dear,” he began, “I don't know much of the details, but he at least deserved to go to jail. That's all I can say.”

“I feel bad for thinking he was slimy,” Emily admitted.

 _Don't worry,_ he thought. _Years from now, you'll accept how right you were!_

“I'm sure some people feel the same way too,” he assured her.

Emily looked up at the door and raised an eyebrow.

“Why are you changing your suite again?” Emily asked.

Corvo felt his ears grow hot. “I needed to.”

“Why?” she asked. “I liked it in purple!”

He almost choked on air. Emily stared at him with sad, curious eyes.

“Would you like a hot chocolate,” he said, trying to change the subject.

Emily's head drooped, but she nodded. “Sure. I get hot cocoa and you get to tell me why you like red and black. Is it for the funeral—?”

“—Shouldn't your mother know where you are?” he asked. “She wouldn't want you wandering around with a shooter on the loose!”

Emily turned pink in the cheeks and crossed her arms. “I don't like being interrupted.”

 _I may have to watch my step around this child,_ Corvo realized.

“There! That's the spirit!” he said, patting her shoulder. “Everything will be just fine. Right?”

Emily allowed herself a tight smile and nodded her pretty head.

“Wait right here?” he said with a wink.

She nodded again, and he walked into his suite. The maids were repositioning a table over a wine red rug. There were vases of red roses: one sitting on the piano, another on a shelf. After the table has been set down, the third vase was used to top it off. The recipe book of mocktails was propped against it. The curtains had been changed to red and black stripes.

He worried what his bedroom would look like.

“Excuse me,” Corvo said.

The maids stopped and turned to face him.

“Yes, sir,” one of them said.

“Can you tell me how I can contact the owner of this hotel?” he asked. “Or who I might I have to talk to?”

The other maid shrugged. “My apologies, sir. We're just the maids.”

“That's alright then,” he replied.

They returned to work. One of them went into his bedroom.

At a time like this, he thought it would be best to let Ms. Kaldwin know that her daughter was safe. But he didn't want to call security. That would create too much of a fuss. And this was a problem for mother and daughter.

 _Besides, I can't contact them at all,_ he remembered. _My damned phone's still unplugged. Though, if I have to... I could walk her to front desk?_

But how could he contact her? He couldn't be presumptuous enough to come knocking the front door of Ms. Kaldwin's private residence, escorting her daughter back home. And Emily seemed to need a bit more cheering up before before she left. The only way was to call Ms. Kaldwin then. But how? Who on earth did he know who would have it...?

_Oh!_

Corvo speed dialed Lady Moray phone number. Of course! Ms. Kaldwin was one of her customers. She could call for him.

But Lady Moray didn't answer her phone. Perhaps, she was working.

_Dammit!_

Who else could possibly have access to Ms. Kaldwin?

Corvo sighed, trying to think, and closed the phone. And froze. The whale button was staring him in the face. He clicked his teeth.

_Oh. Right._

Flipping open his cell phone once more, he sent The Outsider a text.

_Please inform Ms. Kaldwin that her daughter is at my doorstep._

It was only yesterday when he was forced to text the man about the catering service. Knowing that he of all people was paying for the food—it somehow made the barbajuan taste funny.

 _Take it like a man,_ Corvo scolded himself.

He put his cell phone away and shook his head.

“Maybe Sokolov will offer a good rate after this is over...”

He mumbled tired words to himself as he walked into the kitchenette. As he poured milk into a pot, his cell rang and buzzed in pocket. He slipped it out and looked at the caller screen. And his eyes widened.

The Outsider.

The Outsider was calling him. The Outsider. His sponsor. **Him.** Personally. The last person he wanted to talk to on the entire planet.

Corvo took a deep breath, mustering his self-control, and answered.

“H-hello?” he asked.

“My dear Corvo,” The Outsider drawled. “I am your generous sponsor and supplier. Not your errand boy. There's a difference.”

Corvo—in spite of himself—was tempted to relax. This wasn't the type of voice he had expected from a man like The Outsider. It was... normal. Just a voice with a typical Gristol accent. Soft and unassuming. And inviting.

Too inviting.

“I apologize,” he replied. “I didn't know who else to ask.”

“Is Vera busy?” he asked.

“Probably...”

“I see... you have pen and paper on hand?”

Corvo looked around. There was a small pad and a pen holder in the corner.

“Yes, right here.” He tore off a page and snagged a pen.

The Outsider gave him the number, saying the numbers slowly and carefully. “That's her cell number. Save it in your phone.”

“Why?”

“Do you honestly think you won't be talking to her again?”

And The Outsider let out a low chuckle. Corvo swallowed.

“What's so funny?” he asked.

“I've been waiting, you know,” The Outsider replied, his tone lowering. “Vera calls as often as she wants. Even Mr. Joplin and I have had a few conversations. Interesting inventions he has in store. But nothing from you. Not a word from you. I'm beginning to think you're avoiding me.”

Corvo's face turned red. “I apologize. I'll try not to make it so obvious from now on.”

He stopped, realizing what he had just said, and face-palmed.

 _Open mouth,_ he thought, _and insert foot!_

And yet, The Outsider simply chuckled again, with the likeness of a mischievous spirit.

“It seems I've ruffled your feathers one time too many,” he said. “So sorry.”

“You're really expecting us to investigate this for you?” Corvo asked.

“Why not... when it's so easy to solve?”

“Then why don't you do it?”

“That would be boring.”

Corvo managed to hold back from making another retort. This man was absolutely impossible!

“The police force can be such a laughing stock sometimes,” The Outsider replied. “They'll never be able to find the murderer on their own. They're going about it at the wrong angle.”

“What are you getting that?” Corvo asked calmly.

“My dear Corvo, have some fun with the others. You are a man who truly needs to relax. Goodbye.”

The line went dead, and Corvo nearly choked in mid-curse word. He closed the phone and shut his eyes tight. Impossible. Utterly impossible!

He tried to think calmer thoughts. The sad little girl sitting outside his suite. Lady Moray's encouraging smile. The vineyard in Bastillian that he was supposed to inherit from his father. The reason why had accepted The Outsider's offer in the first place...

Corvo cleared his throat, dialed the number, and called Jessamine Kaldwin. She didn't answer the first time. Understandable. He tried again, and she answered.

“Hello, this is Kaldwin speaking,” she replied.

“Um, Ms. Kaldwin,” he said. “This is... Mr. Attano.”

The line went silent for a moment. Corvo swallowed for the millionth time that day. _Please don't think I'm a stalker. Please don't think I'm a stalker..._

“Mr. Attano...” she began tentatively, “how did you get this number?”

“Vera gave it to me just now,” Corvo lied. “I'm sorry to trouble you, but your daughter... Emily...”

“Oh! Have you seen her?”

“She's outside my suite right now. Shall I let her in?”

“Oh yes! Please! Keep her there. I think she wondered off while I was talking to the detective.”

“Alright. I'll keep her busy with some hot cocoa.”

“That would be best. I won't be long. Thank you so much.”

Jessamine hung up, and Corvo exhaled as if he were a deflating balloon. And before he knew it, the milk started to bubble. He added in some cooking chocolate and began to stir. As he reached into of the cupboard for some cocoa and some cinnamon, someone knocked at the wall behind him.

He jumped slightly... and saw Cecelia standing in the doorway. She was dressed like one of the maids. The wide grin on her face bothered him.

It bothered him very much.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Attano!” she chirped. “I've got quite the delivery for you! Straight from The Whale himself!”

“Oh joy!” Corvo muttered, his left eye twitching. “And I just got finished speaking to him!”

 

00000

 

Jessamine arrived at the suite in haste. She had left her hair down without thinking, and to her distaste, she had forgotten her suit jacket, and her blouse was untucked. The door had been left propped open. She knocked on it nevertheless, and Corvo called for her to enter.

She found the odd duo drinking their cocoa, sitting in the newly decorated living room. At the coffee table, Emily was propped up on a burgundy arm chair. Corvo had a recipe book for mocktails in his hand. Harry lounged on his lap, purring away and twitching her ears.

Corvo moved to greet her, and Harry hopped down onto the table. Jessamine saw his eyes as he briefly scanned her appearance. He raised his eyebrows.

 _I wish I'd put up my hair,_ she scolded herself.

She saw the red roses on the table.

_Wait a minute. Red and black?_

Sitting next to the couch, there was a small metal file box with a strange looking lock. It had wheels and a roller handle.

“Hello, Mummy,” Emily said, revealing a brown mustache.

“Hello, darling,” she replied, touching her cheek. “I'm sorry for ignoring you. And being gloomy.”

“Apology accepted.”

“But don't go walking off again. It's dangerous!”

“Yes, Mummy.”

Jessamine kissed her forehead and turned her attention to Corvo.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “I almost didn't know what to do. Running around when a murderer's on the loose!”

“That's what I thought,” Corvo replied.

“But... Mr. Attano...”

“Yes?”

She briefly glanced both ways, observing the room. “If I'm not mistaken... didn't the décor here used to be purple?”

Corvo sipped on his cocoa. “Yes. I'd lost a bet.”

Her face hardened in bewilderment. She found it remarkable that he could say that with a straight face.

“You are one of the most interesting residents in this hotel,” she replied.

Corvo sighed, and for a moment, she thought that his eyes looked tired. Almost sad even.

“I guess I'll take that a compliment,” he murmured.

Emily continued slirping on her drink. Jessamine saw that she was nowhere near finished. Her eyes darted between the pair. Harry meowed and continued purring on the table.

“Can I talk to you?” she asked Corvo. “Outside?”

Corvo blinked and stared at her for a moment. “Sure.”

Jessamine gently ran her fingers through Emily's hair and walked out of the suite. Corvo followed her. As soon as they were outside, Jessamine pinched the bridge of her nose and shook her head.

_Business, motherhood. It's all the same._

For the first time, she noticed that Corvo was in slight disarray as well, though not in the same way she had first seen him. His hair was in a bushy mess, and the first three buttons of his shirt were loose. His collarbones were exposed.

 _The tired artist look..._ she mused. She tried not to smile.

“I don't mean to pry,” Corvo said, “but is Miss Curnow all right?”

Jessamine coughed under her breath. She wanted to smack herself.

“I...I hope so,” Jessamine replied. “I...I gave her... the day off.”

“That's good...” he murmured, more to himself.

 _I was staring..._ she realized. _Dammit!_

“I don't mean to trouble you any further,” she said, “but... could you please join me for tea? Tomorrow? I have something I need to discuss with you.”

Jessamine watched his reaction. Corvo's eyes became shifty, and she noticed creases between his eyes.

“I... I'd be glad to,” he replied. “I don't see why not.”

“Is eleven o'clock alright?” she asked. “Have you visitedThe Golden Cat yet?”

“Yes, they make great scones.”

Jessamine grinned. “That's what the reviewers say!”

Corvo returned her smile in kind.

 

00000

 

 _Oh God!_ Corvo thought. _What have I gotten myself into this time?_

 

 


End file.
